Chance A Tale In Two Parts

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CHANCE

CHANCE

A TALE IN TWO PARTS BY

JOSEPH CONRAD

THOSE that hold that all things are governed by

Fortune had not erred, had they not persisted there.

SIR THOMAS BROWNE

GARDEN CITY 1919 NEW YORK
DQUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

Copyright, 1913, by

DOTJBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

All rights reserved, including that of

translation into foreign language^

including the Scandinavian

Copyright, 1912, by
THE NEW YORK HERALD Co.

TO
SIR HUGH CLIFFORD, KC.M.G.

WHOSE STEADFAST FRIENDSHIP

IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE
KX1STHNCE OF THESE PAGES

CONTENTS

PART I

THE DAMSEL
CHAPTER ONE

PAG*

YOUNG POWELL AND His CHANCE 3

CHAPTER TWO

THE FYNES AND THB GIBL-FBIEND . . . ,..- 36

CHAPTER THREE

THRIFT AND THE CHILD " e . .69

CHAPTER FOUR

THE GOVERNESS 102

CHAPTER FIV1
THB TEA PARTY 141

CHAPTER SIX
FLORA - . . . m

CHAPTER SEVfiN
ON THE PAVEMENT . . . 206

vii

viii CONTENTS

PART II
THE KNIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

PAOB

THE "FBRNDALE" . . 269

CHAPTER TWO
YOUNG POWELL, SEES AND HEARS ...... 285

CHAPTER THREE

DEVOTED SERVANTS AND THE LIGHT OP A FLARB . . . 909

CHAPTER FOUR
ANTHONY AND FLORA S40

CHAPTER FIVE
THE GREAT DE BARRAL 865

CHAPTER SIX

"... A MOONLESS NIGHT, THICK WITH STARS ABOVE, VERZ PARK ON

THE WATER" ......... 421

PARTI
THE DAMSEL

CHAPTER ONE

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE

I BELIEVE he had seen us out of the window coming
off to dine in an overloaded dinghy of a fourteen-ton
yawl belonging to Marlow, my host and skipper. We
helped the boy we had with us to haul the boat up on the
landing-stage before we went to tiie riverside inn, where
we found our new acquaintance eating his dinner in digni-
fied loneliness at the head of a long table, white and in-
hospitable like a snow bank.

The red tint of his clear-cut face with trim short black
whiskers under a cap of curly iron-gray hair was the only
warm spot in the dinginess of that room cooled by the
cheerless tablecloth. We knew him already by sight as the
owner of a little five-ton cutter, which he sailed alone ap-
parently, a fellow yachtsman in the unpretending band of
fanatics who cruise at the mouth of the Thames. But the
first time he addressed the waiter sharply as "steward"
we knew him at once for a sailor as well as a yachtsman.

Presently he had occasion to reprove the same waiter
for the slovenly manner in which the dinner was served.
He did it with considerable energy and then turned
to us.

"If we at sea/ 5 he declared, "went about our work as
people ashore high and low go about theirs, we should
never make a living. No one would employ us. And
moreover no ship navigated and sailed in the happy-go-

4 CHANCE

lucky manner people conduct their business on shore
would ever arrive in port."

Since he had retired from the sea he had been astonished
to discover that the educated people were not much better
than the others. No one seemed to take any proper pride
in his work: from plumbers, who were simply thieves, to,
say, newspaper men (he seemed to think them a specially
intellectual class) , who never by any chance gave a correct
version of the simplest affair. This universal inefficiency
of what he called "the shore gang" he ascribed in general
to the want of responsibility and to a sense of security.

"They see," he went on, "that no matter what they do,
this tight little island won't turn turtle with them or spring
a leak and go to the bottom with their wives and children."

From that point the conversation took a special turn
relating exclusively to sea-life. On that subject he got
quickly in touch with Marlow, who in his time had followed
the sea. They kept up a lively exchange of reminiscences
while I listened. They agreed that the happiest time in
their lives was as youngsters in good ships, with no care in
the world, but not to lose a watch below when at sea and
not a moment's time in going ashore after work hours
in harbour. They agreed also as to the proudest moment
they had known in that calling which is never embraced on
rational and practical grounds, because of the glamour of
its romantic associations. It was the moment when they
had passed successfully their first examination and left
the seamanship Examiner with the little precious slip of
blue paper in their hands.

"That day I wouldn't have called the Queen my
cousin," declared our new acquaintance enthusiastically.

At that time the Marine Board examinations took place

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 5

at the St. Katherine's Dock House on Tower Hill, and he
informed us that he had a special affection for the view of
that historic locality, with the Gardens to the left, the
front of the Mint to the right, the miserable tumble-down
little houses farther away, a cabstand, bootblacks squat-
ting on the edge of the pavement, and a pair of big police-
men gazing with an air of superiority at the doors of the
Black Horse public-house across the road. This was the
part of the world, he said, his eyes first took notice of, on
the finest day of his life. He had emerged from the main
entrance of St. Katherine's Dock House a full-fledged
second mate after the hottest two hours of his life with

Captain R , the most dreaded of the three seamanship

Examiners who at the time were responsible for the mer-
chant service officers qualifying in the Port of London.

"We all who were preparing to pass," he said, "used to
shake in our shoes at the idea of going before him. He
kept me for an hour and a half in the torture chamber and
behaved as though he hated me. He kept his eyes shaded
with one of his hands. Suddenly he let it drop saying,
*You will do ! * Before I realized what he meant he was
pushing the blue slip across the table. I jumped up as if
my chair had caught fire.

" c Thank you, sir/ says I, grabbing the paper.

" "Good morning, good luck to you,* he growls at me.

"The old doorkeeper fussed out of the cloak-room with
my hat. They always do. But he looked very hard a%
me before he ventured to ask in a sort of timid whisper;
'Got through all right, sir?' For all answer I dropped a
half-crown into his soft, broad palm. 'Well/ says he,
with a sudden grin from ear to ear, *I never knew him
to keep any of you young gentlemen so long. He failed two

6 CHANCE

second mates this morning before your turn came. Less
than twenty minutes each: that's about his usual time/

"I found myself downstairs without being aware of the
steps as if I had floated down the staircase. The finest day
in my life. The day you get your first command is
nothing to it. For one thing a man is not so young then,
and for another with us, you know, there is nothing much
more to expect. Yes, the finest day of one's life, no doubt,
but then it is just a day and no more. What comes after
is about the most unpleasant time for a youngster, the
trying to get an officer's berth with nothing much to show
but a brand-new certificate. It is surprising how useless
you find that piece of ass's skin that you have been putting
yourself in such a state about. It didn't strike me at the
time that a Board of Trade certificate does not make an
officer, not by a long long way. But the skippers of the
ships I was haunting with demands for a job knew that
very well. I don't wonder at them now, and I don't
blame them either. But this 'trying to get a ship* is
pretty hard on a youngster all the same. . . ."

He went on then to tell us how tired he was and how
discouraged by this lesson of disillusion following swiftly
upon the finest day of his life. He told us how he went
the round of all the ship-owners' offices in the City where
some junior clerk would furnish him with printed forms
of application which he took home to fill up in the evening.
He used to run out just before midnight to post them in
the nearest pillar-box. And that was all that ever came
of it. In his own words: he might just as well have
dropped them all properly addressed and stamped into the
sewer grating.

Then one day, as he was wending his weary way to the

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 7

docks, he met a friend and former shipmate a little older
than himself outside the Fenchurch Street Railway Sta-
tion

He craved for sympathy, but his friend had just "got a
ship" that very morning and was hurrying home in a
state of outward joy and inward uneasiness usual to a
sailor who after many days of waiting suddenly gets a
berth. This friend had the time to condole with him but
briefly. He must be moving. Then as he was running
off, over his shoulder as it were he suggested: "Why don't
you go and speak to Mr. Powell in the Shipping Office?"
Our friend objected that he did not know Mr. Powell from
Adam. And the other already pretty near round the
corner shouted back advice: "Go to the private door of
the Shipping Office and walk right up to him. His desk
is by the window. Go up boldly and say I sent you."

Our new acquaintance looking from one to the other
of us declared: "Upon my word, I had grown so desper-
ate that I'd have gone boldly up to the devil himself on the
mere hint that he had a second mate's job to give away."

It was at this point that interrupting his flow of talk to
light his pipe, but holding us with his eye, he inquired
whether we had known Powell. Marlow with a slight
reminiscent smile murmured that he "remembered him
very well."

Then there was a pause. Our new acquaintance had
become involved in a vexatious difficulty with his pipe;
which had suddenly betrayed his trust and disappointed
his anticipation of self-indulgence. To keep the ball
rolling I asked Marlow if this Powell was remarkable in
any way.

"He was not exactly remarkable," Marlow answered

8 CHANCE

with his usual nonchalance. "In a general way it's very
difficult for one to become remarkable. People won't
take sufficient notice of one, don't you know. I remember
Powell so well simply because as one of the Shipping Mas-
ters in the Port of London he dispatched me to sea on
several long stages of my sailor's pilgrimage. He resem-
bled Socrates. I mean he resembled him genuinely: that
is in the face. A philosophical mind is but an accident.
He reproduced exactly the familiar bust of the immortal
sage, if you will imagine the bust with a high top hat riding
far on the back of the head, and a black coat over the
shoulders. As I never saw him except from the other side
of the long official counter bearing the five writing-desks
of the five Shipping Masters, Mr. Powell has remained a
bust to me."

Our new acquaintance advanced now from the mantel-
piece with his pipe in good working order.

"What was the most remarkable about Powell," he
enunciated dogmatically with his head in a cloud of
smoke, "is that he should have had just that name. You
see, my name happens to be Powell, too."

It was clear that this intelligence was not imparted to
us for social purposes. It required no acknowledgment.

We continued to gaze at him with expectant eyes.

He gave himself up to the vigorous enjoyment of his
pipe for a silent minute or two. Then picking up the
thread of his story he told us how he had started hot foot
for Tower Hill. He had not been that way since the day
of his examination the finest day of his life the day
of his overweening pride. It was very different now.
He would not have called the Queen his cousin, still, but
this time it was from a sense of profound abasement. He

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 9

didn't think himself good enough for anybody's kinship.
He envied the purple-nosed old cab-drivers on the stand,
the bootblack boys at the edge of the pavement, the two
large bobbies pacing slowly along the Tower Garden's
railings in the consciousness of their infallible might, and
the bright scarlet sentries walking smartly to and fro be-
fore the Mint. He envied them their places in the scheme
of world's labour. And he envied also the miserable
sallow, thin-faced loafers blinking their obscene eyes and
rubbing their greasy shoulders against the door-jambs of
the Black Horse pub, because they were too far gone to
feel their degradation.

I must render the man the justice that he conveyed very
well to us the sense of his youthful hopelessness surprised
at not finding its place in the sun and 110 recognition of its
right to live.

He went up the outer steps of St. Katherine's Dock
House, the very steps from which he had some six weeks
before surveyed the cabstand, the buildings, the police-
men, the bootblacks, the paint, gilt, and plate glass of the
Black Horse, with the eye of a Conqueror. At the time
he had been, at the bottom of his heart, surprised that all
this had not greeted him with songs and incense, but now
(he made no secret of it) he made his entry in a slinking
fashion past the doorkeeper's glass box. "I hadn't any
half-crowns to spare for tips," he remarked grimly. The
man, however, ran out after him asking: "What do you
require?" but with a grateful glance up at the first floor in

remembrance of Captain R 's examination room (how

easy and delightful all that has been) he bolted down a
flight leading to the basement and found himself in a
place of dusk and mystery and many doors. He had been

10 CHANCE

afraid of being stopped by some rule of no-admittance.
However he was not pursued.

The basement of St. Katherine's Dock House is vast in
extent and confusing in its plan. Pale shafts of light
slant from above into the gloom of its chilly passages.
Powell wandered up and down there like an early Christian
refugee in the catacombs; but what little faith he had in the
success of his enterprise was oozing out of his finger-tips.
At a dark turn under a gas bracket whose flame was half
turned down, his self-confidence abandoned him altogether.

"I stood there to think a little," he said. "A foolish
thing to do, because of course I got scared. What could
you expect? It takes some nerve to tackle a stranger
with a request for a favour. I wished my namesake
Powell had been the devil himself. I felt somehow it
would have been an easier job. You see, I never believed
in the devil enough to be scared of him; but a man can
make himself very unpleasant. I looked at a lot of doors,
all shut tight, with a growing conviction that I would
never have the pluck to open one of them. Thinking's
no good for one's nerve. I concluded I would give up the
whole business. But I didn't give up in the end, and I'll
tell you what stopped me. It was the recollection of that
confounded doorkeeper who had called after me. I felt
sure the fellow would be on the lookout at the head of the
stairs. If he asked me what I had been after, as he had
the right to do, I wouldn't know what to answer that
wouldn't make me look silly, if no worse. I got very hot.
There was no chance of slinking out of this business.

"I had lost my bearings somehow down there. Of the
many doors of various sizes, right and left, a good few had
glazed lights a***' * some however must have led merely,

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 11

into lumber rooms or such like, because when I brought
myself to try one or two I was disconcerted to find that
they were locked. I stood there irresolute and uneasy like
a baffled thief. The confounded basement was as still as a
grave and I became aware of my heart beats. Very un-
comfortable sensation. Never happened to me before or
since. A bigger door to the left of me, with a large brass
handle, looked as if it might lead into the Shipping Office.
I tried it, setting my teeth. * Here goes ! '

"It came open quite easily. And lo ! the place it opened
into was hardly any bigger than a cupboard. Anyhow it
wasn't more than ten feet by twelve; and as I in a way
expected to see the big shadowy cellar-like extent of the
Shipping Office where I had been once or twice before, I
was extremely startled. A gas bracket hung from the
middle of the ceiling over a dark, shabby writing-desk
covered with a litter of yellowish dusty documents. Un-
der the flame of the single burner which made the place
ablaze with light, a plump little man was writing hard, his
nose very near the desk. His head was perfectly bald and
about the same drab tint as the papers. He appeared
pretty dusty, too.

"I didn't notice whether there were any cobwebs on him,
but I shouldn't wonder if there were, because he looked as
though lie had been imprisoned for years in that little hole.
The way he dropped his pen and sat blinking my way up-
set me very much. And his dungeon was hot and musty;
it smelt of gas and mushrooms, and seemed to be some-
where one hundred and twenty feet below the ground.
Solid, heavy stacks of paper filled all the corners half-
way up to the ceiling, and when the thought flashed
*pon me that these were the premises of the Marine

12 CHANCE

Board and that this fellow must be connected in som
way with ships and sailors and the sea, my astonishment
took my breath away. One couldn't imagine why the
Marine Board should keep that bald, fat creature slaving
down there. For some reason or other I felt sorry and
ashamed to have found him out in his wretched cap-
tivity. I asked gently and sorrowfully: 'The Shipping
Office, please/

"He piped up in a contemptuous squeaky voice which
made me start: 'Not here. Try the passage on the other
side. Street side. This is the dock side. YouVe lost
your way. . . /

"He spoke in such a spiteful tone that I thought he was
going to round off with the words: 'You fooP
and perhaps he meant to. But what he finished sharply
with was: 'Shut the door quietly after you/

"And I did shut it quietly you bet. Quick and quiet.
The indomitable spirit of that chap impressed me. I
wonder sometimes whether he has succeeded in writing
himself into liberty and a pension at last, or had to go out
of his gas-lighted grave straight into that other dark one
where nobody would want to intrude. My humanity was
pleased to discover he had so much kick left in him, but I
was not comforted in the least. It occurred to me that if
Mr. Powell had the same sort of temper. . . . How-
ever, I didn't give myself time to think and scuttled across
the space at the foot of the stairs into the passage where I'd
been told to try. And I tried the first door I came to,
right away, without any hanging back, because coming
loudly from the hall above an amazed and scandalizedvoice
wanted to know what sort of game I was up to down
there. 'Don't you know there's no admittance that

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 13

way? 5 it roared. But if there was anything more I shut
it out of my hearing by means of a door marked Private
on the outside. It let me into a six-foot wide strip between
a long counter and the wall, taken off a spacious, vaulted
room with a grated window and a glazed door giving day-
light to the further end. The first thing I saw right in
front of me were three middle-aged men having a sort of
romp together round about another fellow with a thin,
long neck and sloping shoulders who stood up at a desk
writing on a large sheet of paper and taking no notice ex-
cept that he grinned quietly to himself. They turned
very sour at once when they saw me. I heard one of them
mutter: * Hullo! What have we here?'

" 'I want to see Mr. Powell, please, 5 I said, very civil
but firm; I would let nothing scare me away now. This
was the Shipping Office right enough. It was after three
o'clock and the business seemed over for the day with them.
The long-necked fellow went on with his writing steadily.
I observed that he was no longer grinning. The three
others tossed their heads all together toward the far end
of the room, where a fifth man had been looking on at their
antics from a high stool. I walked up to him as boldly as
if he had been the devil himself. With one foot raised up
and resting on the cross-bar of his seat he never stopped
swinging the other, which was well clear of the stone floor.
He had unbuttoned the top of his waistcoat, and he wore
his tall hat very far at the back of his head. He had a full,
unwrinkled face and such clear-shining eyes that his gray
beard looked quite false on him, stuck on for a disguise.
You said just now he resembled Socrates didn't you? I
don 5 t know about that. This Socrates was a wise man,
I believe?"

14 CHANCE

"He was/ 5 assented Marlow. "And a true friend of
youth. He lectured them in a peculiarly exasperating
manner. It was a way he had/'

"Then give me Powell every time/' declared our new
acquaintance sturdily. "He didn't lecture me in any way.
Not he. He said: 'How do you do?' quite kindly to my
mumble. Then says he, looking very hard at me: "I don't
think I know you do I?'

"'No, sir/ I said, and down went my heart sliding into
my boots, just as the time had come to summon up all my
cheek. There's nothing meaner in the world than a piece
of impudence that isn't carried off well. For fear of ap-
pearing shamefaced I started about it so free and easy as
almost to frighten myself. He listened for a while, look-
ing at my face with surprise and curiosity, and then held
up his hand. I was glad enough to shut up, I can tell
you.

"'Well, you are a cool hand/ says he. 'And that
friend of yours, too. He pestered me coming here every
day for a fortnight till a captain I'm acquainted with was
good enough to give him a berth. And no sooner he's
provided for than he turns you on. You youngsters don't
seem to mind whom you get into trouble/

"It was my turn now to stare with surprise and curios-
ity. He hadn't been talking loud, but he lowered his
voice still more.

"'Don't you know it's illegal?'

"I wondered what he was driving at till I remembered
that procuring a berth for a sailor is a penal offence under
the Act. That clause was directed of course against the
swindling practices of the boarding-house crimps. It had
never struck me it would apply to everybody alike no

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 15

matter what the motive, because I believed then that
people on shore did their work with care and foresight.

"I was confounded at the idea, but Mr. Powell made me
soon see that an Act of Parliament hasn't any sense of its
own. It has only the sense that's put into it; and that's
precious little sometimes. He didn't mind helping a
young man to a ship now and then, he said, but if we kept
on coming constantly it would soon get about that he was
doing it for nnoney.

"'A pretty thing that would be: the Senior Shipping
Master of the Port of London hauled up in a police court
and fined fifty pounds,' says he. Tve another four
years to serve to get my pension. It could be made to
look very black against me and don't you make any
mistake about it,' he says.

"And all the time with one knee well up he went on
swinging his other leg like a boy on a gate and looking at
me very straight with his shining eyes. I was confounded,
I tell you. It made me sick to hear him imply that some-
body would make a report against him.

"'Oh!' I asked shocked, 'who would think of such a,
scurvy trick, sir?' I was half disgusted with him for
having the mere notion of it.

"'Who?' says he, speaking very low. "Anybody. One
of the office messengers maybe. I've risen to be the
Senior of this office and we are all very good friends here,
but don't you think that my colleague that sits next to
m3 wouldn't like to go up to this desk by the window four
years in advance of the regulation time? Or even one
year for that matter. It's human nature.'

"I could not help turning my head. The three fellows
who had been skylarking when I came in were now talking

16 CHANCE

together very soberly, and the long-necked chap was
going on with his writing still. He seemed to me the
most dangerous of the lot. I saw him sideface and his
lips were set very tight. I had never looked at mankind
in that light before. When one's young human nature
shocks one. But what startled me most was to see the
door I had come through open slowly and give passage to a
head in a uniform cap with a Board of Trade badge. It
was that blamed old doorkeeper from the hall. He had
run me to earth and meant to dig me out, too. He walked
up the office smirking craftily, cap in hand.

"'What is it, Symons?' asked Mr. Powell.

"'I was only . wondering where this 'ere gentleman 'ad
gone to, sir. He slipped past me upstairs, sir.'

"I felt mighty uncomfortable.

"'That's all right, Symons. I know the gentleman/
says Mr. Powell as serious as a judge.

"'Very well, sir. Of course, sir. I saw the gentleman
running races all by 'isself down here, so I . . .'

"It's all right I tell you.' Mr. Powell cut him short
with a wave of his hand; and, as the old fraud walked off
at last, he raised his eyes to me. I did not know what to
do : stay there, or clear out, or say that I was sorry.

"'Let's see,' says he, 'what did you tell me your name
was?'

"Now, observe, I hadn't given him my name at all and
his question embarrassed me a bit. Somehow or other it
didn't seem proper for me to fling his own name at him, as
it were. So I merely pulled out my new certificate from
my pocket and put it into his hand unfolded, so that he
could read Charles Powell written very plain on the parch-
ment.

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 17

4 'He dropped his eyes on to it and after a while laid it
quietly on the desk by his side. I didn't know whether
he meant to make any remark on this coincidence. Before
he had time to say anything the glass door came open with
a bang, and a tall, active man rushed in with great strides.
His face looked very red below his high silk hat. You
could see at once he was the skipper of a big ship.

"Mr. Powell, after telling me in an undertone to wait a
little, addressed him in a friendly way :

"Tve been expecting you in every moment to fetch
away your Articles, captain. Here they are all ready for
you/ And turning to a pile of agreements lying at his
elbow he took up the topmost of them. From where I
stood I could read the words, 'Ship FerndaleS written
in a large round hand on the first page.

"'No, Mr. Powell, they ain't ready, worse luck/ says
that skipper. 'I've got to ask you to strike out my
second officer/ He seemed excited and bothered. He
explained that his second mate had been working on board
all the morning. At one o'clock he went out to get a bit
of dinner and didn't turn up at two as he ought to have
done. Instead there came a messenger from the hospital
with a note signed by a doctor. Collar bone and one arm
broken. Let himself be knocked down by a pair-horse
van while crossing the road outside the dock gate, as if
he had neither eyes nor ears. And the ship ready to
leave the dock at six o'clock to-morrow morning!

"Mr. Powell dipped his pen and began to turn the leaves
of the agreement over. 'We must then take his name
off/ he says in a kind of unconcerned sing-song.

" 'What am I to do? ' burst out the skipper. 'This office
closes at four o'clock. I can't find a man in half an hour/*

18 CHANCE

" "This office closes at four,' repeats Mr. Powell, glancing
up and down the pages and touching up a letter here and
there with perfect indifference.

" 'Even if I managed to lay hold some time to-day of a
man ready to go at such short notice I couldn't ship him
regularly here could I?'

"Mr. Powell was busy drawing his pen through the
entries relating to that unlucky second mate and making
a note in the margin.

"'You could sign him on yourself on board/ says he
without looking up. 'But I don't think you'll find easily
an officer for such a pier-head jump.'

"Upon this the fine-looking skipper gave signs of dis-
tress. The ship mustn't miss the next morning's tide.
He had to take on board forty tons of dynamite and a
hundred and twenty tons of gunpowder at a place down
the river before proceeding to sea. It was all arranged
for next day. There would be no end of fuss and com-
plications if the ship didn't turn up in time. ... I
couldn't help hearing all this, while wishing him to take
himself off, because I wanted to know why Mr. Powell
had told me to wait. After what he had been saying
there didn't seem any object in my hanging about. If I
had had my certificate in my pocket I should have tried
to slip away quietly; but Mr. Powell had turned about
into the same position I found him in at first and was
again swinging his leg. My certificate open on the desk
was under his left elbow and I couldn't very well go up and
jerk it away.

"*I don't know/ says he carelessly, addressing the
helpless captain but looking fixedly at me with an ex-
pression as if I hadn't been there. *I don't know whether

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 19

I ought to tell you that I know of a disengaged second
mate at hand/

" 'Do you mean you've got him here? * shouts the other,
looking all over the empty public part of the office as if he
were ready to fling himself bodily upon anything resembling
a second mate. He had been so full of his difficulty that I
verily believe he had never noticed me. Or perhaps seeing
me inside he may have thought I was some under-strapper
belonging to the place. But when Mr. Powell nodded in
my direction he became very quiet and gave me a long stare.
Then he stooped to Mr. Powell's ear I suppose he
imagined he was whispering, but I heard him well enough.

'" Looks very respectable/

"' Certainly/ says the Shipping Master quite calm and
staring all the time at me. 'His name's Powell/

"'Oh, I see!' says the skipper as if struck all of a heap.
'But is he ready to join at once?'

"I had a sort of vision of my lodgings in the north of
London, too, beyond Dalston, away to the devil and all
niy gear scattered about, and my empty sea-chest some-
where in an outhouse the good people I was staying with
had at the end of their sooty strip of garden. I heard the
Shipping Master say in the coolest sort of way:

'"He'll sleep on board to-night/

'"He had better,' says the captain of the Ferndale
very businesslike, as if the whole thing were settled. I
can't say I was dumb for joy as you may suppose. It
wasn't exactly that. I was more by way of being out of
breath with the quickness of it. It didn't seem possible
that this was happening to me. But the skipper, after he
had talked for a while with Mr. Powell, too low for me to
hear, became visibly perplexed.

20 CHANCE

"I suppose he had heard I was freshly passed and
without experience as an officer, because he turned about
and looked ine over as if I had been exposed for sale.

"'He's young/ he mutters. ' Looks smart, though.
. . . You're smart and willing (this to me very sudden
and loud) and all that, aren't you?'

"I just managed to open and shut my mouth, no more,
being taken unawares. But it was enough for him. He
made as if I had deafened him with protestations of my
smartness and willingness.

"'Of course, of course. All right.* And then turning
to the Shipping Master, who sat there swinging his leg, he
said that he certainly couldn't go to sea without a second
officer. I stood by as if all these things were happening to
some other chap whom I was seeing through with it. Mr.
Powell stared at me with those shining eyes of his. But
that bothered skipper turns upon me again as though he
wanted to snap my head off.

"'You aren't too big to be told how to do things are
you? You've a lot to learn yet, though you mayn't think
so/

"I had half a mind to save my dignity by telling him
that if it was my seamanship he was alluding to, I wanted
him to understand that a fellow who had survived being

turned inside out for an hour and a half by Captain R

was equal to any demand his old ship was likely to make
on his competence. However, he didn't give me a chance
to make that sort of fool of myself, because before I could
open my mouth he had gone round on another tack and
was addressing himself affably to Mr. Powell, who, swing-
ing his leg, never took his eyes off me.

"Til take your young friend willingly, Mr. Powell. If

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 21

you let him sign on as second mate at once I'll take the
Articles away with me now/

"It suddenly dawned upon me that the innocent skipper
of the Ferndale had taken it for granted that I was a rela-
tive of the Shipping Master! I was quite astonished at
this discovery, though indeed the mistake was natural
enough under the circumstances. What I ought to have
admired was the reticence with which this misunderstand-
ing had been established and acted upon. But I was too
stupid then to admire anything. All my anxiety was
that this should be cleared up. I was ass enough to won-
der exceedingly at Mr. Powell failing to notice the misap-
prehension. I saw a slight twitch come and go on his
face; but instead of setting right that mistake the Shipping
Master swung round on his stool and addressed me as
* Charles/ He did. And I detected him taking a hasty
squint at my certificate just before, because clearly till he
did so he was not sure of my Christian name. 'Now
then come round in front of the desk, Charles/ says he in
a loud voice.

"Charles! At first, I declare to you, it didn't seem
possible that he was addressing himself to me. I even
looked round for that Charles, but there was nobody behind
me except the thin-necked chap still hard at his writing,
and the other three Shipping Masters, who were changing
their coats and reaching for their hats, making ready to
go home. It was the industrious, thin-necked man who
without laying down his pen lifted with his left hand a
flap near his desk and said kindly :

"'Pass this way/

"I walked through in a trance, faced Mr. Powell, from
whom I learned that we were bound to Port Elizabeth

g<2 CHANCE

first, and signed my name on the Articles of the ship
Ferndale as second mate the voyage not to exceed two
years.

"'You won't fail to join eh?' says the captain
anxiously. 'It would cause no end of trouble and ex-
pense if you did. You've got a good six hours to get your
gear together, and then you'll have time to snatch a sleep
on board before the crew joins in the morning.'

"It was easy enough for him to talk of getting ready in
six hours for a voyage that was not to exceed two years.
He hadn't lo do that trick himself, and with his sea-chest
locked up in an outhouse the key of which had been mis-
laid for a week as I remembered. But neither was I much
concerned. The idea that I was absolutely going to sea
at six o'clock next morning hadn't got quite into my head
yet. It had been too sudden.

"Mr. Powell, slipping the Articles into a long envelope,
spoke up with a sort of cold half -laugh without looking at
either of us.

"'Mind you don't disgrace the name, Charles/

"And the skipper chimes in very kindly:

" ' He'll do well enough I daresay. I'll look after him a
bit.'

"Upon this he grabs the Articles, says something about
trying to run in for a minute to see that poor devil in the
hospital, and off he goes with his heavy, swinging step
after telling me sternly: 'Don't you go like that poor
fellow and get yourself run over by a cart as if you hadn't
either eyes or ears.'

"'Mr. Powell,' says I timidly (there was by then only
the thin-necked man left in the office with us and he was
already by the door, standing on one leg to turn the

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 23

bottom of his trousers up before going away). 'Mr.
Powell/ says I, 'I believe the captain of the Ferndale
was thinking all the time that I was a relation of yours.'

"I was rather concerned about the propriety of it, you
know, but Mr. Powell didn't seem to be in the least.

"'Did he?' says he. 'That's funny, because it seems
to me, too, that Fve been a sort of good uncle to several of
you young fellows lately. Don't you think so yourself?
However, if you don't like it you may put him right
when you get out to sea.' At this I felt a bit queer. Mr.
Powell had rendered me a very good service because
it's a fact that with us merchant sailors the first voyage as
officer is the real start in life. He had given me no less
than that. I told him warmly that he had done for
me more that day than all my relations put together ever
did.

"'Oh, no, no/ says he. 'I guess it's that shipment of
explosives waiting down the river which has done most
for you. Forty tons of dynamite have been your best
friend to-day, young man.'

"That was true, too, perhaps. Anyway, I saw clearly
enough that I had nothing to thank myself for. But as I
tried to thank him, he checked my stammering.

"'Don't be in a hurry to thank me,' says he. 'The
voyage isn't finished yet.'"

Our new acquaintance paused, then added meditatively :

*' Queer man. As if it made any difference. Queer man."

"It's certainly unwise to admit any sort of responsibility
for our actions, whose consequences we are never able to
foresee," remarked Marlow by way of assent.

"The consequence of his action was that I got a ship, 95
said the other, "That could not do much harm," he added

24 CHANCE

with a laugh which argued a probably unconscious con-
tempt of general ideas.

But Marlow was not put off. He was patient and re-
flective. He had been at sea many years and I verily
believe he liked sea-life because upon the whole it is fa-
vourable to reflection. I am speaking of the now nearly
vanished sea-life under sail. To those who may be sur-
prised at the statement I will point out that this life se-
cured for the mind of him who embraced it the inestimable
advantages of solitude and silence. Marlow had the habit
of pursuing general ideas in a peculiar manner, between
jest and earnest.

"Oh, I wouldn't suggest," he said, "that your name-
sake Mr. Powell, the Shipping Master, had done you much
harm. Such was hardly his intention. And even if it had
been he would not have had the power. He was but a man,
and the incapacity to achieve anything distinctly good or
evil is inherent in our earthly condition. Mediocrity is
our mark. And perhaps it's just as well, since, for the
most part, we cannot becertain of the effect of our actions.'*

"I don't know about the effect," the other stood up
to Marlow manfully. "What effect did you expect any-
how? I tell you he did something uncommonly kind."

"He did what he could," Marlow retorted gently, "and
on his own showing that was not a very great deal. I
cannot help thinking that there was some malice in the
way he seized the opportunity to serve you. He managed
to make you uncomfortable. You wanted to go to sea,
but he jumped on the chance of accommodating your de-
sire with a vengeance. I am inclined to think your cheek
alarmed him. And this was an excellent occasion to sup-
press you altogether. For if you accepted he was relieved

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 25

of you with every appearance of humanity, and if you
made objections (after requesting his assistance, mind you)
it was open to him to drop you as a sort of impostor. You
might have had to decline that berth for some very valid
reason. From sheer necessity, perhaps. The notice was
too uncommonly short. But under the circumstances
you'd have covered yourself with ignominy."

Our new friend knocked the ashes out of his pipe.

"Quite a mistake," he said. "I ain not of the declining
sort, though I'll admit it was something like telling a man
that you would like a bath, and, in consequence, being in-
stantly knocked overboard to sink or swim with your
clothes on. However, I didn't feel as if I were in deep
water at first. I left the Shipping Office quietly and for a
time strolled along the street as easy as if I had a week
before me to fit myself out. But by and by I reflected
that the notice was even shorter than it looked. The
afternoon was well advanced; I had some things to get,
a lot of small matters to attend to, one or two persons to
see. One of them was an aunt of mine, my only relation,
who quarrelled with poor father as long as he lived about
some silly matter that had neither right nor wrong to it.
She left her money to me when she died. I used always to
go and sec her for decency's sake. I had so much to do
before night that I didn't know where to begin. I felt
inclined to sit down on the curb and hold my head in my
hands. It was as if an engine had been started going
under my skull. Finally I sat down in the first cab that
came along and it was a hard matter to keep on sitting
there,Ican tell you, while we rolled up and down the streets,
pulling up here and there, the parcels accumulating round
me and the engine in my head gathering more way every

26 CHANCE

minute. The composure of the people on the pavements
was provoking to a degree, and as to the people in shops,
they were benumbed, more than half -frozen imbecile.
Funny how it affects you to be in a peculiar state of mind :
everybody that does not act up to your excitement seems
so confoundedly unfriendly. And my state of mind, what
with the hurry, the worry, and a growing exultation, was
peculiar enough. That engine in my head went round at
its top speed hour after hour till at about eleven at night it
let up on me suddenly at the entrance to the dock before
large iron gates in a dead wall."

These gates were closed and locked. The cabby, after
shooting his things off the roof of his machine into young
Powell's arms, drove away leaving him alone with his sea-
chest, a sailcloth bag, and a few parcels on the pavement
about his feet. It was a dark, narrow thoroughfare, he told
us. A mean row of houses on the other side looked empty :
there wasn't the smallest gleam of light in them. The
white-hot glare of a gin palace a good way off made the
intervening piece of the street pitch black. Some human
shapes appearing mysteriously, as if they had sprung up
from the dark ground, shunned the edge of the faint light
thrown down by the gateway lamps. These figures were
wary in their movements and perfectly silent of foot, like
beasts of prey slinking about a campfire. Powell gathered
up his belongings and hovered over them like a hen over
her brood. A gruffly insinuating voice said:

"Let's carry your things in, capt'in! I've got my pal
'ere."

He was a tall, bony, gray-haired ruffian with a bulldog
jaw, in a torn cotton shirt and moleskin trousers. The
shadow of his hobnailed boots was enormous and coffinlike.

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 27

His pal, who didn't come up much higher than his elbow,
stepping forward, exhibited a pale face with a long drooping
nose and no chin to speak of. He seemed to have just
scrambled out of a dust-bin in a tam-o'shanter cap and a
tattered soldier's coat much too long for him. Being so
deadly white he looked like a horrible dirty invalid in a
ragged dressing-gown. The coat flapped open in front and
the rest of his apparel consisted of one brace which crossed
his naked, bony chest, and a pair of trousers. He blinked
rapidly as if dazed by the faint light, while his patron,
the old bandit, glowered at young Powell from under his
beetling brow.

"Say the word, capt'in. The bobby '11 let us in all
right. 'E knows both of us."

"I didn't answer him," continued Mr. Powell. "I was
listening to footsteps on the other side of the gate, echoing
between the walls of the warehouses as if in an uninhabited
town of very high buildings dark from basement to roof.
You could never have guessed that within a stone's throw
there was an open sheet of water and big ships lying afloat.
The few gas lamps, showing up a bit of brickwork here and
there, appeared in the blackness like penny dips in a range
of cellars and the solitary footsteps came on, tramp,
tramp. A dock policeman strode into the light on the
other side of the gate, very broad-chested and stern.

"' Hallo! What's up here?'

"He was really surprised, but after some palaver he let
me in, together with the two loafers carrying my luggage.
He grumbled at them, however, and slammed the gate
violently with a loud clang. I was startled to discover
how many night prowlers had collected in the darkness of
the street in such a short time and without my being aware

28 CHANCE

of it. Directly we were through, they came surging
against the bars, silent, like a niob of ugly spectres. But
suddenly, up the street somewhere, perhaps near that
public-house, a row started as if Bedlam had broken loose:
shouts, yells, an awful shrill shriek and at that noise all
these heads vanished from behind the bars.

'" Look at this/ marvelled the constable. 'It's a won*
der to me they didn't make off with your things while you
were waiting/

'"I would have taken good care of that/ 1 said defiantly.
But the constable wasn't impressed.

" * Much you would have done. The bag goiag off round
one dark corner; the chest round another. Would you
have run two ways at once? And anyhow you'd have
been tripped up and jumped upon before you had run
three yards. I tell you you've had a most extraordinary
chance that there wasn't one of them regular boys about
to-night, in the High Street, to twig your loaded cab go by.
Ted here is honest. . . . You are on the honest lay,
Ted, ain't you? 5

"'Always was, orficer/ said the big ruffian with feeling.
The other frail creature seemed dumb and only hopped
about with the edge of its soldier coat touching the ground.

"'Oh, yes, I daresay/ says the constable. 'Now, then,
forward, march. . . . He's that because he ain't
game for the other thing/ he confided to me. 'He hasn't
got the nerve for it. However, I ain't going to lose sight
of them two till they go out through the gate. That little
chap's a devil. He's got the nerve for anything, only he
hasn't got the muscle. Well! Well! You've had a
chance to get in with a whole skin and all your things/

"I was incredulous a little. It sfeenaed impossible that

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 29

after getting ready with so much hurry and inconvenience
I should have lost my chance of a start in life from such a
cause. I asked:

" * Does that sort of thing happen often so near the dock
gates?'

" c Often ? No ! Of course not often. But it ain't often
either that a man comes along with a cabload of things to
join a ship at this time of night. I've been in the dock
police thirteen years and haven't seen it done once. 5

"Meantime we followed my sea-chest which was being
carried down a sort of deep narrow lane, separating two
high warehouses, between honest Ted and his little devil
of a pal who had to keep up a trot to the other's stride.
The skirt of his soldier's coat floating behind him nearly
swept the ground so that he seemed to be running on
castors. At the corner of the gloomy passage a rigged jib
boom with a dolphin-striker ending in an arrowhead
stuck out of the night close to a cast-iron lamp-post. It
was the quay side. They set down their load in the light,
and honest Ted asked hoarsely :

"'Where's your ship, guv'nor?'

"I didn't know. The constable was interested at nr r
ignorance.

"'Don't know where your ship is?' he asked with curios-
ity. 'And you the second officer! Haven't you been
working on board of her?'

"I couldn't explain that the only work connected with
my appointment was the work of chance. I told him
briefly that I didn't know her at all. At this he remarked :

" 'So I see. Here she is, right before you. That's her.'

*' At once the head-gear in the gas light inspired me with
interest and respect; the spars were big, the chains and

30 CHANCE

ropes stout, and the whole thing looked powerful and trust-
worthy. Barely touched by the light, her bows rose
faintly alongside the narrow strip of the quay; the rest of
her was a black smudge in the darkness. Here I was face
to face with my start in life. We walked in a body a few
steps on a greasy pavement between her side and the
towering wall of a warehouse and I hit my shins cruelly
against the end of the gangway. The constable hailed her
quietly in a bass undertone 'Ferndale there!' A feeble
and dismal sound something in the nature of a buzzing
groan answered from behind the bulwarks.

"I distinguished vaguely an irregular, round knob of
wood, perhaps, resting on the rail. It did not move iu
the least; but as another broken-down buzz like a still
fainter echo of the first dismal sound proceeded from it*
I concluded it must be the head of the shipkeeper. The
stalwart constable jeered in a mock-official manner.

" * Second officer coming to join. Move yourself a bit.'

"The truth of the statement touched me in the pit of
the stomach (you know that's the spot where emotion gets
home on a man), for it was borne upon me that really and
truly I was nothing but a second officer of a ship just like
any other second officer, to that constable. I was moved
by this solid evidence of my new dignity. Only his tone
offended me. Nevertheless I gave him the tip he was
looking for. Thereupon he lost all interest in me, humor-
ous or otherwise, and walked away, driving sternly before
him the honest Ted, who went off grumbling to himself
like a hungry ogre, and his horrible dumb little pal in the
soldier's coat, who, from first to last, never emitted the
slightest sound.

"It was very dark on the quarter deck of the Ferndalc

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 31

between the deep bulwarks overshadowed by the break of
the poop and frowned upon by the front of the warehouse.
I plumped down on to my chest near the after hatch as
if my legs had been jerked from under me. I felt suddenly
very tired and languid. The shipkeeper, whom I could
hardly make out hung over the capstan in a fit of weak,
pitiful coughing. He gasped out very low *Oh, dear!
Oh, dear!' and struggled for breath so long that I got up
alarmed and irresolute.

"I've been took like this since last Christmas twelve-
month. It ain't nothing."

"He seemed a hundred years old at least. I never saw
him properly because he was gone ashore and out of
sight when I came on deck in the morning; but he gave me
the notion of the feeblest creature that ever breathed.
His voice was thin like the buzzing of a mosquito. As
it would have been cruel to demand assistance from such
a shadowy wreck I went to work myself, dragging my
chest along a pitch-black passage under the poop deck,
while he sighed and moaned around me as if my exertions
were more than his weakness could stand. At last as I
banged pretty heavily against the bulkheads he warned
me in his faint breathless wheeze to be more careful.

"* What's the matter?' I asked rather roughly, not
relishing to be admonished by this forlorn broken-down
ghost.

"'Nothing! Nothing, sir,' he protested so hastily
that he lost his poor breath again and I felt sorry for him.
'Only the captain and his missus are sleeping on board.
She's a lady that mustn't be disturbed. They came about
half past eight, and we had a permit to have lights in the
cabin till ten to-night,'

82 CHANCE

"This struck me as a considerable piece of news. I
had never been in a ship where the captain had his wife
with him. I'd heard fellows say that captains' wives
could work a lot of mischief on board ship if they happened
to take a dislike to any one; especially the new wives if
young and pretty. The old and experienced wives on
the other hand fancied they knew more about the ship
than the skipper himself and had an eye like a hawk's
for what went on. They were like an extra chief mate
of a particularly sharp and unfeeling sort who made his
report in the evening. The best of them were a nuisance.
In the general opinion a skipper with his wife on board
was more difficult to please; but whether to show off
his authority before an admiring female or from loving
anxiety for her safety or simply from irritation at her
presence nobody I ever heard on the subject could tell
for certain.

"After I had bundled in my things somehow, I struck
a match and had a dazzling glimpse of my berth; then I
pitched the roll of my bedding into the bunk but took no
trouble to spread it out. I wasn't sleepy now, neither
was I tired. And the thought that I was done with the
earth for many many months to come made me feel very
quiet and self-contained as it were. Sailors will under-
stand what I mean."

Marlow nodded. "It is a strictly professional feeling,"
he commented. "But other professions or trades know
nothing of it. It is only this calling whose primary appeal
lies in the suggestion of restless adventure which holds
out that deep sensation to those who embrace it. It is
difficult to define, I admit."

"I should call it the peace of the sea," said Mr, Charles

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 33

Powell in an earnest tone, but looking at us as though
lie expected to be met by a laugh of derision and were half
prepared to salve his reputation for common sense by
joining in it. But neither of us laughed at Mr. Charles
Powell in whose start in life we had been called to take
a part. He was lucky in his audience.

"A very good name," said Marlow looking at him ap-
provingly, "A sailor finds a deep feeling of security in
the exercise of his calling. The exacting life of the sea
has this advantage over the life of the earth that its claims
are simple and cannot be evaded."

"Gospel truth," assented Mr. Powell. "No! they
cannot be evaded."

That an excellent understanding should have estab-
lished itself between my old friend and our new acquaint-
ance was remarkable enough. For they were exactly
dissimilar one individuality projecting itself in length,
and the other in breadth, which is already a sufficient
ground for irreconcilable difference. Marlow who was
lanky, loose, quietly composed in varied shades of brown
robbed of every vestige of gloss, had a narrow, veiled
glance, the neutral bearing and the secret irritability
which go together with a predisposition to congestion of
the liver. The other, compact, broad and sturdy of limb,
seemed extremely full of sound organs functioning vigor-
ously all the time la order to keep up the brilliance of
his colouring, the light curl of his coal-black hair and the
lustre of his eyes, which asserted themselves roundly in
an open, manly face. Between two such organisms one
would not have expected to find the slightest tempera-
mental accord. But I have observed that profane men
iiving in ships, like the holy men gathered together iix

34 CHANCE

monasteries, develop traits of profound resemblance.
This must be because the service of the sea and the service
of a temple are both detached from the vanities and errors
of a world which follows no severe rule. The men of the
sea understand each other very well in their view of earthly
things, for simplicity is a good counsellor and isolation not
a bad educator. A turn of mind composed of innocence
and scepticism is common to them all, with the addition of
an unexpected insight into motives, as of disinterested
lookers-on at a game. Mr. Powell took me aside to say :

"I like the things he says."

"You understand each other pretty well," I observed.

"I know his sort," said Powell, going to the window to
look at his cutter still riding to the flood. "He's the sort
that's always chasing some notion or other round and
round his head just for the fun of the thing."

"Keeps them in good condition," I said.

"Lively enough I daresay," he admitted.,

"Would you like better a man who let his notions lie
curled up?"

"That I wouldn't," answered our new acquaintance.
Clearly he was not difficult to get on with. "I like him
very well," he continued, "though it isn't easy to make
him out. He seems to be up to a thing or two. What's
he doing?'

I informed him that our friend Marlow had retired from
the sea in a sort of half-hearted fashion some years ago.

Mr. Powell's comment was: "Fancied had enough of it."

"Fancied's the very word to use in this connection,"
I observed, remembering the subtly provisional character
of Marlow's long sojourn amongst us. From year to year
he dwelt on land as a bird rests on the branch of a tree, so

YOUNG POWELL AND HIS CHANCE 35

tense with the power of brusque flight into its true element
that it is incomprehensible why it should sit still minute
after minute. The sea is the sailor's true element, and
Marlow, lingering on shore, was to me an object of incred-
ulous commiseration like a bird, which secretly should
have lost its faith in the high virtue of flying.

CHAPTER TWO

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND

WE WERE on our feet in the room by then, and
Marlow, brown and deliberate, approached the
window where Mr. Powell and I had retired.

"What was the name of your chance again?" he asked.
Mr. Powell stared for a moment.

"Oh! The Ferndale. A Liverpool ship. Composite
built."

"Ferndale," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "Fern-
dale."

"Know her?"

"Our friend," I said, "knows something of every ship.
He seems to have gone about the seas prying into things
considerably."

Marlow smiled.

"I've seen her at least once."

"The finest sea-boat ever launched," declared Mr. Pow-
ell sturdily. "Without exception."

"She looked a stout, comfortable ship," assented Mar-
low. "Uncommonly comfortable. v Not very fast though."

"She was fast enough for any reasonable man when
I was in her," growled Mr. Powell with his back to us.

"Any ship is that for a reasonable man," generalized
Marlow in a conciliatory tone. Cfc A sailor isn't a globe-
trotter."

"No," muttered Mr. Powell.

86

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL - FRIEND 37

"Time's nothing to him," advanced Marlow.

"I don't suppose it's much,'* said Mr. Powell. "All
the same a quick passage is a feather in a man's cap."

"True. But that ornament is for the use of the master
only. And by the by what was his name?"

"The master of the Ferndale? Anthony. Captain
Anthony."

"Just so. Quite right," approved Marlow thought-
fully. Our new acquaintance looked over his shoulder.

"What do you mean? Why is it more right than if it
had been Smith?"

"He has known him probably," I explained. "Mar-
low here appears to know something of every soul that
ever went afloat in a sailor's body."

Mr. Powell seemed wonderfully amenable to verbal
suggestions, for looking again out of the window, he
muttered :

"He was a good soul."

This clearly referred to Captain Anthony of the Fern-
dale. Marlow addressed his protest to me.

"I did not know him. I really didn't. He was a good
soul. That's nothing very touch out of the way is it?
And I didn't even know that much of him. All I knew of
him was an accident called Fyne."

At this Mr. Powell who evidently could be rebellious,
too, turned his back squarely on the window.

"What on earth do you mean?" he asked. "An
accident called Fyne," he repeated separating the
words with emphasis.

Marlow was not disconcerted.

"I don't mean accident in the sense of a mishap. Not
in the least. Fyne was a good little man in thel Civil

38 CHANCE

Service. By accident, I mean that which happens blindly
and without intelligent design. That's generally the way
a brother-in-law happens into a man's life."

Marlow's tone being apologetic and our new acquaint-
ance having again turned to the window I took it upon
myself to say :

"You are justified. There is very little intelligent
design in the majority of marriages; but they are none the
worse for that. Intelligence leads people astray as far as
passion sometimes. I know you are not a cynic."

Marlow smiled his retrospective smile which was kind
as though he bore no grudge against people he used to
know.

"Little Fyne's marriage was quite successful. There
was no design, at all, in it. Fyne, you must know, was an
enthusiastic pedestrian. He spent his holidays tramping
all over our native land. His tastes were simple. He
put infinite conviction and perseverance into his holidays.
At the proper season you would meet in the fields, Fyne,
a serious-faced, broad-chested, little man, with a shabby
knapsack on his back, making for some church steeple.
He had a horror of roads. He wrote once a little book
called the * Tramp's Itinerary,' and was recognized as an
authority on the footpaths of England. So one year, in
his favourite over-the-fields, back-way fashion he entered
a pretty Surrey village where he met Miss Anthony.
Pure accident, you see. They came to an understanding,
across some stile, most likely. Little Fyne held very
solemn views as to the destiny of women on this earth,
the nature of our sublunary love, the obligations of this
transient life and so on. He probably disclosed them to
his future wife. Miss Anthony's views of life were very

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 39

decided too, but in a different way. I don't know the
story of their wooing, I imagine it was carried on clandes-
tinely and, I am certain, with portentous gravity, at the
back of copses, behind hedges. . . ."

"Why was it carried on clandestinely?" I inquired.

"Because of the lady's father. He was a savage senti-
mentalist who had his own decided views of his paternal
prerogatives. He was a terror; but the only evidence
of imaginative faculty about Fyne was his pride in his
wife's parentage. It stimulated his ingenuity, too. Diffi-
cult is it not? to introduce one's wife's maiden name
into general conversation. But my simple Fyne made
use of Captain Anthony for that purpose, or else I would
never even have heard of the man. 'My wife's sailor-
brother' was the phrase. He trotted out the sailor-
brother in a pretty wide range of subjects: Indian and
colonial affairs, matters of trade, talk of travels, of sea-
side holidays and so on. Once I remember 'My wife's
sailor-brother Captain Anthony' being produced in con-
nection with nothing less recondite than a sunset. And
little Fyne never failed to add: 'The son of Carleon
Anthony, the poet you know.' He used to lower his
voice for that statement, and people were impressed or
pretended to be. . . /*,

The late Carleon Anthony, the poet, sang in his time of
the domestic and social amenities of our age with a most
felicitous versification, his object being, in his own words,
"to glorify the result of six thousand years' evolution
toward the refinement of thought, manners, and feelings'*
Why he fixed the term at six thousand years I don't know.
His poems read like sentimental novels told in verse, of a
really superior quality. You felt as if you were being

40 CHANCE

taken out for a delightful country drive by a charming
lady in a pony carriage. But in his domestic life that
same Carleon Anthony showed traces of the primitive
cave-dweller's temperament. He was a massive, im-
placable man with a handsome face, arbitrary and exact-
ing with his dependants, but marvellously suave in his
manner to admiring strangers. These contrasted displays
must have been particularly exasperating to his long-
suffering family. After his second wife's death his boy,
whom he persisted by a mere whim in educating at home,
ran away in conventional style and, as if disgusted with
the amenities of civilization, threw himself, figuratively
speaking, into the sea. The daughter (the elder of the
two children) either from compassion, or because women
are naturally more enduring, remained in bondage to the
poet for several years, till she, too, seized a chance of escape
by throwing herself into the arms, the muscular arms, of
the pedestrian Fyne. This was either great luck or great
sagacity. A civil servant is, I should imagine, the last
human being in the world to preserve those traits of the
cave-dweller from which she was fleeing. Her father
would never consent to see her after the marriage. Such
unforgiving selfishness is difficult to understand unless as
a perverse sort of refinement. There were also doubts as
to Carleon Anthony's complete sanity for some consider-
able time before he died.

Most of the above I elicited from Marlow, for all I knew
of Carleon Anthony was his unexciting but fascinating
verse. Marlow assured me that the Fyne marriage was
perfectly successful and even happy, in an earnest, uuplay-
ful fashion, being blessed besides by three healthy, active*
self-reliant children, all girls. They were all pedestrians

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 41

too. Even the youngest would wander away for miles
if not restrained. Mrs. Fyne had a ruddy out-of-doors
complexion and wore blouses with a starched front like a
man's shirt, a stand-up collar, and a long necktie. Marlow
had made their acquaintance one summer in the country
where they were accustomed to take a cottage for the
holidays.

At this point we were interrupted by Mr. Powell who
declared that he must leave us. The tide was on the turn,
he announced coming away from the window abruptly.
He wanted to be on board his cutter before she swung and
of course he would sleep on board. Never slept away
from the cutter while on a cruise. He was gone in a mo-
ment, unceremoniously, but giving us no offence and
leaving behind an impression as though we had known him
for a long time. The ingenuous way he had told us of his
start in life had something to do with putting him on that
footing with us. I gave no thought to seeing him again.
Marlow expressed a confident hope of coming across him
before long.

"He cruises about the mouth of the river all the summer.
He will be easy to find any week-end," he remarked ringing
the bell so that we might settle up with the waiter.

Later on I asked Marlow why he wished to cultivate
this chance acquaintance. He confessed apologetically
that it was the commonest sort of curiosity. I flatter my-
self that I understand all sorts of curiosity. Curiosity
about daily facts, about daily things, about daily men. It
is the most respectable faculty of the human mind in
fact I cannot conceive the uses of an incurious mind. It
would be like a chamber perpetually locked up. But in
this particular case Mr. Powell seemed to have given us

42 CHANCE

already a complete insight into his personality, such as it
was; a personality capable of perception and with a feeling
for the vagaries of fate, but essentially simple in itself.

Marlow agreed with me so far. He explained, however,
that his curiosity was not excited by Mr. Powell exclu-
sively. It originated a good way further back in the fact
of his accidental acquaintance with the Fyiies, in the
country. This chance meeting with a man who had sailed
with Captain Anthony had revived it. It had revived it
to some purpose, to such purpose that to me, too, was
given the knowledge of its origin and of its nature. It was
given to me in several stages, at intervals which are not
indicated here. On this first occasion I remarked to Mar-
low with some surprise:

"But, if I remember rightly, you said you didn't know
Captain Anthony."

"No. I never saw the man. It's years ago now, but
I seem to hear solemn little Fyne's deep voice announcing
the approaching visit of his wife's brother 'the son of the
poet, you know/ He had just arrived in London from a
long voyage, and, directly his occupations permitted, was
coming down to stay with his relatives for a few weeks.
*No doubt we two should find many things to talk about
by ourselves in reference to our common calling,' added
little Fyne portentously in his grave undertones, as if the
Mercantile Marine were a secret society.

You must understand that I cultivated the Fynes only
in the country, in their holiday time. This was the third
year. Of their existence in town I knew no more than
may be inferred from analogy. I played chess with Fyne
in the late afternoon, and sometimes came over to the
cottage early enough to have tea with the whole family at

THE PYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 43

a big round table. They sat about it, an unsmiling, sun*
burnt company of very few words indeed. Even the
children were silent and as if contemptuous of each other
and of their elders. Fyne muttered sometimes deep down
in his chest some insignificant remarks. Mrs. Fyne smiled
mechanically (she had splendid teeth) while distributing
tea and bread and butter. A something which was not
coldness, nor yet indifference, but a sort of peculiar self-
possession, gave her the appearance of a very trustworthy,
very capable and excellent governess; as if Fyne were a
widower and the children not her own but only entrusted
to her calm, efficient, unemotional care. One expected
her to address Fyne as Mr. When she called him John it
surprised one like a shocking familiarity. The atmos-
phere of that holiday was if I may put it so brightly
dull. Healthy faces, fair complexions, clear eyes, and
never a frank smile in the whole lot, unless perhaps from a
girl-friend.

The girl-friend problem exercised me greatly. How
and where the Fynes got all these pretty creatures to come
and stay with them I can't imagine. I had at first the wild
suspicion that they were obtained to amuse Fyne. But I
soon discovered that he could hardly tell one from the
other, though obviously their presence met with his solemn
approval. These girls in fact came for Mrs. Fyne. They
treated her with admiring deference. She answered to
some need of theirs. They sat at her feet. They were
like disciples. It was very curious. Of Fyne they took
but scanty notice. As to myself I was made to feel that
I did not exist.

After tea we would sit down to chess and then Tyne's
everlasting gravity became faintly tinged by an attenuated

44 CHANCE

gleam of something inward which resembled sly satisfac-
tion. Of the divine frivolity of laughter he was only
capable over a chess-board. Certain positions of the game
struck him as humorous, which nothing else on earth
could do. . . ."

"He used to beat you," I asserted with confidence.

"Yes. He used to beat me," Marlow owned up hastily.
So he and Fyne played two games after tea. The children
romped together outside, gravely, unplayfully, as one
would expect from Fyne's children, and Mrs. Fyne would
be gone to the bottom of the garden with the girl-friend of
the week. She always walked off directly after tea with
her arm round the girl-friend's waist. Marlow said that
there was only one girl-friend with whom he had conversed
at all. It had happened quite unexpectedly, long after he
had given up all hope of getting into touch with these
reserved girl-friends.

One day he saw a woman walking about on the edge of a
high quarry, which rose a sheer hundred feet, at least,
from a road winding up the hill out of which it had been
excavated. He shouted warningly to her from below
where he happened to be passing. She was really in con-
siderable danger. At the sound of his voice she started
back and retreated out of his sight amongst some young
Scotch firs growing near the very brink of the precipice.

"I sat down on a bank of grass/' Marlow went on.
"She had given me a turn. The hem of her skirt seemed
to float over that awful sheer drop, she was so close to the
edge. An absurd thing to do. A perfectly mad trick
for no conceivable object! I was reflecting on the fool-
hardiness of the average girl and remembering some other
instances of the kind, when she came into view walking

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 45

down the steep curve of the road. She had Mrs. Fyne's
walking stick and was escorted by the Fyne dog. Her
dead white face struck me with astonishment, so that I
forgot to raise my hat. I just sat and stared. The dog, a
vivacious and amiable animal, which for some inscrutable
reason had bestowed his friendship on my unworthy self,
rushed up the bank demonstratively and insinuated him-
self under my arm.

The girl-friend (it was one of them) went past some way
as though she had not seen me, then stopped and called the
dog to her several times; but he only nestled closer to my
side, and when I tried to push him away developed that
remarkable power of internal resistance by which a dog
makes himself practically immovable by anything short
of a kick. She looked over her shoulder and her arched
eyebrows frowned above her blanched face. It was al-
most a scowl. Then the expression changed. She looked
unhappy. 'Ccme here!' she cried once more in an an-
gry and distressed tone. I took off my hat at last, but
the dog, hanging out his tongue with that cheerfully im-
becile expression some dogs know so well how to put on
when it suits their purpose, pretended to be deaf.

She cried from the distance desperately.

" Perhaps you will take him to the cottage then? I
can't wait.'

"I won't be responsible for that dog,' I protested, get-
ting down the bank and advancing toward her. She
looked very hurt, apparently by the desertion of the dog.

"But if you let me walk with you he will follow us all
right,' I suggested.

She moved on without answering. The dog launched
himself suddenly full speed down the road, receding from

46 CHANCE

us in a small cloud of dust. It vanished in the distance,
and presently we came up with him lying on the grass.
He panted in the shade of the hedge with shining eyes, but
pretended not to see us. We had not exchanged a word
so far. The girl by my side gave him a scornful glance in
passing.

"He offered to come with me,' she remarked bitterly.

"And then abandoned you!' I sympathized. 'It
looks very unchivalrous. But that's merely his want of
tact. I believe he meant to protest against your reckless
proceedings. What made you come so near the edge of
that quarry? The earth might have given way. Haven't
you noticed a smashed fir tree at the bottom? Tumbled
over only the other morning after a night's rain.'

"I don't see why I shouldn't be as reckless as I please."

I was nettled by her brusque manner of asserting her
folly, and I told her that neither did I as far as that went,
in a tone which almost suggested that she was welcome
to break her neck for all I cared. This was considerably
more than I meant, but I don't like rude girls. I had
been introduced to her only the day before at the round
tea table and she had barely acknowledged the introduc-
tion. I had not caught her name but I had noticed her
fine, arched eyebrows which, so the physiognomists say,
are a sign of courage.

I examined her appearance quietly. Her hair was
nearly black, her eyes blue, deeply shaded by long dark eye-
lashes. She had a little colour now. She looked straight
before her; the corner of her lip on my side drooped a
little; her chin was fine, somewhat pointed. I went on
to say that some regard for others should stand in the way
of one's playing with danger. I urged playfully the dis-

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 47

tress of the poor Fynes in case of accident, if nothing else.
I told her that she did not know the bucolic mind. Had
she given occasion for a coroner's inquest the verdict
would have been suicide, with the implication of unhappy
love. They would never be able to understand that she
had taken the trouble to climb over two post-and-rail
fences only for the fun of being reckless. Indeed even as I
talked chaffingly I was greatly struck myself by the fact.
She retorted that once one was dead what horrid people
thought of one did not matter. It was said with infinite
contempt; but something like a suppressed quaver in the
voice made me look at her again. I perceived then that
her thick eyelashes were wet. This surprising discovery
silenced me as you may guess. She looked unhappy.
And I don't know how to say it well it suited her.
The clouded brow, the pained mouth, the vague, fixed
glance! A victim. And this characteristic aspect made
her attractive; an individual touch you know.

The dog had run on ahead and now gazed at us by the
side of the Fynes' garden-gate in a tense attitude and
wagging his stumpy tail very, very slowly, with an air of
concentrated attention. The girl-friend of the Fynes
bolted violently through the aforesaid gate and into the
cottage, leaving me on the road astounded.

A couple of hours afterward I returned to the cottage
for chess as usual. I saw neither the girl nor Mrs. Fyne
then. We had our two games and on parting I warned
Fyae that I was called to town on business and might be
avray for some time. He regretted it very much. His
brother-in-law was expected next day, but he didn't know
whether he was a chess-player. Captain Anthony ('the
son of the poet you know') was of a retiring disposition,

48 CHANCE

shy with strangers, unused to society and very much de-
voted to his calling, Fyne explained. All the time they
had been married he could be induced only once before to
come and stay with them for a few days. He had had a
rather unhappy boyhood; and it made him a silent man.
But no doubt, concluded Fyne, as if dealing portentously
with a mystery, we two sailors should find much to say to
one another.

This point was never settled. I was detained in town
from week to week till it seemed hardly worth while to
go back. But as I had kept on my rooms in the farm-
house I concluded to go down again for a few days.

It was late, deep dusk, when I got out at our little coun-
try station. My eyes fell on the unmistakable broad back
and the muscular legs in cycling stockings of little Fyne.
He passed along the carriage rapidly toward the rear of
the train, which presently pulled out and left him solitary
at the end of the rustic platform. When he came back to
where I waited I perceived that he was much perturbed,
so perturbed as to forget the convention of the usual
greetings. He only exclaimed Oh! on recognizing me,
and stopped irresolute. When I asked him if he had been
expecting somebody by that train he didn't seem to know.
He stammered disconnectedly. I looked hard at him.
To all appearances he was perfectly sober; moreover to
suspect Fyne of a lapse from the proprieties high or low,
ijreat or small, was absurd. He was also a too serious
and deliberate person to go mad suddenly. But as he
seemed to have forgotten that he had a tongue in his head,
I concluded I would leave him to his mystery. To my
surprise, he followed me out of the station and kept by my
side, though I did not encourage him. I did not, however.

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 49

repulse his attempts at conversation. He was no longer
expecting me, he said. He had given ine up. The
weather had been uniformly fine and so on. I gathered
also that the son of the poet had curtailed his stay some-
what and gone back to his ship the day before.

"That information touched me but little. Believing in
heredity in moderation I knew well how sea-life fashions a
man. outwardly and stamps his soul with the mark of a
certain prosaic fitness because a sailor is not an adven-
turer. I expressed no regret at missing Captain Anthony,
and we proceeded in silence till, on approaching the cot-
tage, Fyne suddenly and unexpectedly broke it by the
hurried declaration that he would go on with me a little
farther.

'Go with you to your door/ he mumbled and started
forward to the little gate where the shadowy figure of
Mrs. Fyne hovered, clearly on the lookout for him. She
was alone. The children must have been already in bed
and I saw no attending girl-friend shadow near her vague
but unmistakable form, half-lost in the obscurity of the
little garden.

I heard Fyne exclaim, 'Nothing!' and then Mrs. Fyne's
well-trained, responsible voice uttered the words, 'It's
what I have said,' with incisive equanimity. By that
time I had passed on, raising my hat. Almost at once
Fyne caught me up and slowed down to my strolling gait,
which must have been infinitely irksome to his high
pedestrian faculties. I am sure that all his muscular per-
son must have suffered from awful physical boredom;
but he did not attempt to charm it away by conversation.
He preserved a portentous and dreary silence. And I
was bored too. Suddenly I perceived the menace of even

60 CHANCE

Worse boredom. Yes! He was so silent because he had
something to tell me.

I became extremely frightened. But man, reckless
animal, is so made that in him curiosity, the paltriest
curiosity, will overcome all terrors, every disgust, and
even despair itself. To my laconic invitation to come in
for a drink he answered by a deep, gravely accented:
* Thanks, I will,' as though it were a response in church.
His face as seen in the lamplight gave me no clue to the
character of the impending communication; as indeed
from the nature of things it couldn't do, its normal ex-
pression being already that of the utmost possible serious-
ness. It was perfect and immovable; and for a certainty
if he had something excruciatingly funny to tell me it
would be all the same.

He gazed at me earnestly and delivered himself of some
weighty remarks on Mrs. Fyne's desire to befriend, coun-
sel, and guide young girls of all sorts on the path of life.
It was a voluntary mission. He approved his wife's ac-
tion and also her views and principles in general.

All this with a solemn countenance and in deep meas-
ured tones. Yet somehow I got irresistible conviction
that he was exasperated by something in particular. In
the unworthy hope of being amused by the misfortunes
of a fellow-creature I asked him point blank what was
wrong now.

What was wrong was that a girl-friend was missing.
She had been missing precisely since six o'clock thai
morning. The woman who did the work of the cottage
saw her going out at that hour, for a walk. The pedestrian
Fyne's ideas of a walk were extensive, but the girl did not
turn up for lunch, nor yet for tea, nor yet for dinner. She

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 51

had not turned up by footpath, road, or rail. He had been
reluctant to make inquiries. It would have set all the
village talking. The Fynes had expected her to reappear
every moment, till the shades of the night and the silence
of slumber had stolen gradually over the wide and peace-
ful rural landscape commanded by the cottage.

After telling me that much Fyne sat helpless in uncon-
clusive agony. Going to bed was out of the question
neither could any steps be taken just then. What to dc
with himself he did not know!

I asked him if this was the young lady I saw a day
or two before I went to town? He really could not re-
member. Was she a girl with dark hair and blue eyes?
I asked further. He really couldn't tell what colour her
eyes were. He was very unobservant except as to the
peculiarities of footpaths, on which he was an authority.

I thought with amazement and some admiration that
Mrs. Fyne's young disciples were to her husband's gravity
no more than evanescent shadows. However, with but
little hesitation Fyne ventured to affirm that yes, her
hair was of some dark shade.

'We had a good deal to do with that girl first and last/
he explained solemnly; then getting up as if moved by a
spring, he snatched his cap off the table. 'She may be
back in the cottage,' he cried in his bass voice. I followed
him out on the road.

It was one of those dewy, starry nights, oppressing
our spirit, crushing our pride, by the brilliant evidence of
the awful loneliness, of the hopeless obscure insignificance
of our globe lost in the splendid revelation of a glittering,
soulless universe. I hate such skies. Daylight is friendly
to man toiling under a sun which warms his heart;

52 CHANCE

cloudy soft nights are more kindly to our littleness. I
nearly ran back again to my lighted parlour; Fyne fussing
in a knickerbocker suit before the hosts of heaven, on a
shadowy earth, about a transient phantom-like girl seemed
too ridiculous to associate with. On the other hand
there was something fascinating in the very absurdity.
He cut along in his best pedestrian style and I found my-
self let in for a spell of severe exercise at eleven o'clock
at night.

In the distance, over the fields and trees smudging and
blotching the vast obscurity, one lighted window of the
cottage with the blind up was like a bright beacon kept
alight to guide the lost wanderer. Inside, at the table
bearing the lamp, we saw Mrs. Fyne sitting with folded
arms and not a hair of her head out of place. She looked
exactly like a governess who had put the children to bed ;
and her manner to me was just the neutral manner of a
governess. To her husband, too, for that matter.

Fyne told her that I was fully informed. Not a muscle
of her ruddy, smooth, handsome face moved . She had
schooled herself into that sort of thing. Having seen two
successive wives of the delicate poet chivied and worried
into their graves, she had adopted that cool, detached
manner to meet her gifted father's outbreaks of selfish
temper. It had now become a second nature. I suppose
she was always like that; even in the very hour of elope-
ment with Fyne. That transaction when one remembered
it in her presence acquired a quaintly marvellous aspect
to one's imagination. But somehow her self-possession
matched very well little Fyne's invariable solemnity.

I was rather sorry for him. Wasn't he worried! The
agony of solemnity. At the same time I was amused. I

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 53

didn't take a gloomy view of that Vanishing girl' trick.
Somehow I couldn't. But I said nothing. None of us
said anything. We sat about that big round table as if
assembled for a conference and looked at each other in a
sort of fatuous consternation. I would have ended by
laughing outright if I had not been saved from that im-
propriety by poor Fyne becoming preposterous.

He began with grave anguish to talk of going to the
police in the morning, of printing descriptive bills, of
setting people to drag the ponds for miles around. It
was extremely gruesome. I murmured something about
communicating with the young lady's relatives. It seemed
to me a very natural suggestion; but Fyne and his wife
exchanged such a significant glance that I felt as though I
had made a tactless remark.

But I really wanted to help poor Fyne; and as I could
see that, manlike, he suffered from the present inability
to act, the passive waiting, I said: 'Nothing of this can
be done till to-morrow. But as you have given me an
insight into the nature of your thoughts I can tell you
wiiat may be done at once. We may go and look at the
bottom of the old quarry which is on the level of the road,
about a mile from here. 5

The couple made big eyes at this, and then I told them
of my meeting with the girl. You may be surprised, but
I assure you I had not perceived this aspect of it till that
very moment. It was like a startling revelation; the past
throwing a sinister light on the future. Fyne opened his
mouth gravely and as gravely shut it. Nothing more.
Mrs. Fyne said, 'You had better go,' with an air as if
her self-possession had been pricked with a pin in some
secret place.

54 CHANCE

And I you know how stupid I can be at times 1
perceived with dismay for the first time that by pandering
to Fyne's morbid fancies I had let myself in for some
more severe exercise. And wasn't I sorry I spoke! You
know how I hate walking at least on solid, rural earth;
for I can walk a ship's deck a whole foggy night through,
if necessary, and think little of it. There is some satis-
faction too in playing the vagabond in the streets of a big
town till the sky pales above the ridges of the roofs. I
have done that repeatedly for pleasure of a sort. But
to tramp the slumbering countryside in the dark is for
me a wearisome nightmare of exertion.

With perfect detachment Mrs. Fyne watched me go
out after her husband. That woman was flint.

The fresh night had a smell of soil, of turned-up sods
like a grave an association particularly odious to a
sailor by its idea of confinement and narrowness; yes
even when he has given up the hope of being buried at sea;
about the last hope a sailor gives up consciously after he
has been, as it does happen, decoyed by some chance into
the toils of the land. A strong grave-like sniff. The
ditch by the side of the road must have been freshly dug
in front of the cottage.

Once clear of the garden, Fyne gathered way like a
racing cutter. What was a mile to him or twenty
miles? You think he might have gone shrinkingly on
such an errand. But not a bit of it. The force of pedes-
trian genius I suppose. I raced by his side in a mood of
profound self-derision, and infinitely vexed with that
minx. Because dead or alive I thought of her as a
minx. . . ."

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 55

I smiled incredulously at IVIarlow's ferocity; but Marlow
pausing with a whimsically retrospective air, never flinched.

"Yes, yes. Even dead. And now you are shocked.
You see, you are such a chivalrous masculine beggar.
But there is enough of the woman in my nature to free
rny judgment of women from glamorous reticency. And
then, why should I upset myself? A woman is not nec-
essarily either a doll or an angel to me. She is a human
being, very much like myself. And I have come across
too many dead souls lying so to speak at the foot of high
unscalable places for a merely possible dead body at the
bottom of a quarry to strike my sincerity dumb.

The cliff -like face of the quarry looked forbiddingly im-
pressive. I will admit that Fyne and I hung back for a
moment before we made a plunge off the road into the
bushes growing in a board space at the foot of the tower-
ing limestone wall. These bushes were heavy with dew.
There were also concealed mudholes in there. We crept
and tumbled and felt about with our hands along the
ground. We got wet, scratched, and plastered with mire
all over our nether garments. Fyne fell suddenly into a
strange cavity - probably a disused lime-kiln. His voice
uplifted in grave distress sounded more than usually rich,
solemn, and profound. This was the comic relief of an ab-
surdly dramatic situation. While hauling him out I per-
mitted myself to laugh aloud at last. Fyne, of course,
didn't.

I need not tell you that we found nothing after a most
conscientious search. Fyne even pushed his way into a
decaying shed half-buried in dew-soaked vegetation. He
struck matches, several of them, too, as if to make abso-
lutely sure that the vanished girl-friend of his wife was

56 CHANCE

not hiding there. The short flares illuminated his grave,
immovable countenance while I let myself go completely
and laughed in peals.

I asked him if he really and truly supposed that any
sane girl would go and hide in that shed; and if so why?

Disdainful of my mirth he merely muttered his basso-
profundo thankfulness that we had not found her any-
where about there. Having grown extremely sensitive
(an effect of irritation) to the tonalities, I may say, of this
affair, I felt that it was only an imperfect, reserved, thank-
fulness, with one eye still on the possibilities of the several
ponds in the neighbourhood. And I remember I snorted,
I positively snorted, at that poor Fyne.

What really jarred on me was the rate of his walking.
Differences in politics, in ethics and even in aesthetics
need not arouse angry antagonism. One's opinion may
change; one's tastes may alter in fact they do. One's
very conception of virtue is at the mercy of some felicitous
temptation which may be sprung on one any day. All
these things are perpetually on the swing. But a temper-
amental difference, temperament being immutable, is the
parent of hate. That's why religious quarrels are the
fiercest of all. My temperament, in matters pertaining
to solid land, is the temperament of leisurely movement,
of deliberate gait. And there was that little Fyne pound-
ing along the road in a most offensive manner; a man
wedded to thick-soled laced boots; whereas my tempera-
ment demands thin shoes of the lightest kind. Of course
there could never have been question of friendship between
us; but under the provocation of having to keep up with
his pace I began to dislike him actively. I begged sar-
castically to know whether he could tell me if we were

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 57

engaged in a farce or in a tragedy. I wanted to regulate
my feelings, which, I told him, were in an unbecoming
state of confusion.

But Fyne was as impervious to sarcasm as a turtle.
He tramped on, and all he did was to ejaculate twice out
of his deep chest, vaguely, doubtfully.

'I am afraid. ... I am afraid! . . .?'

"This was tragic. The thump of his boots was the only
sound in a shadowy world. I kept by his side with a
comparatively ghostly, silent tread. By a strange illusion
the road appeared to run up against a lot of low stars at no
very great distance, but as we advanced new stretches of
whitey-brown ribbon seemed to come up from under the
black ground. I observed, as we went by, the lamp in my
parlour in the farmhouse still burning. But I did not
leave Fyne to run in and put it out. The impetus of his
pedestrian excellence carried me past in his wake before I
could make up my mind.

'Tell me, Fyne,' I cried, 'you don't think the girl was
mad do you?'

He answered nothing. Soon the lighted beacon-like
window of a cottage came into view. Then Fyne uttered
a solemn: 'Certainly not,' with profound assurance.
But immediately after he added, 'A very highly strung
young person indeed,' which unsettled me again. Was
it a tragedy?

"Nobody ever got up at six o'clock in the morning to
commit suicide," I declared crustily. "It's unheard of!
This is a farce."

As a matter of fact it was neither farce nor tragedy.

Coming up to the cottage we had a view of Mrs. Fyne
inside still sitting in the strong light at the round trJble

18 CHANCE

with folded arms. It looked as though she had not moved
her very head by as much as an inch since we went away.
She was amazing in a sort of unsubtle way; crudely
amazing I thought. Why crudely? I don't know.
Perhaps because I saw her then in a crude light. I mean
this materially in the light of an unshaded lamp. Our
mental conclusions depend so much on momentary phy-
sical sensations don't they? If the lamp had been
shaded I should perhaps have gone home after expressing
politely my concern at the Fynes' unpleasant predicament.

Losing a girl-friend in that manner is unpleasant. It is
also mysterious. So mysterious that a certain mystery
attaches to the people to whom such a thing does happen.
Moreover, I had never really understood the Fynes; he
with his solemnity which extended to the very eating of
bread and butter; she with that air of detachment and
resolution in breasting the common-place current of their
unexciting life, in which the cutting of bread and butter
appeared to me, by a long way, the most dangerous epi-
sode. Sometimes I amused myself by supposing that to
their minds this world of ours must be wearing a perfectly
overwhelming aspect, and that their heads contained
respectively awfully serious and extremely desperate
thoughts and trying to imagine what an exciting time
they must be having of it in the inscrutable depths of their
being. This last was difficult to a volatile person (I am
sure that to the Fynes I was a volatile person) and the
amusement in itself was not very great; but still in the
country away from all mental stimulants ! . . .
My efforts had invested them with a sort of amusing pro-
fundity.

But when Fyne and I got back into the room, then in

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL - FRIEND 59

the searching, domestic glare of the lamp, inimical to the
play of fancy, I saw these two stripped of every vesture it
had amused me to put on them for fun. Queer enough
they were. Is there a human being that isn't that
more or less secretly? But whatever their secret it was
manifest to me that it was neither subtle nor profound.
They were a good, stupid, earnest couple and very much
bothered. They were that with the usual unshaded
crudity of average people. There was nothing in them
that the lamplight might not touch without the slightest
risk of indiscretion.

Directly we had entered the room Fyne announced the
result by saying 'Nothing' in the same tone as at the
gate on his return from the railway station. And as then
Mrs. Fyne uttered an incisive "It's what I've said/ which
might have been the veriest echo of her words in the
garden. We three looked at each other as if on the brink
of a disclosure. I don't know whether she was vexed at
my presence. It could hardly be called intrusion
could it? Little Fyne began it. It had to go on. We
stood before her, plastered with the same mud (Fyne
was a sight!), scratched by the same brambles, conscious of
the same experience., Yes. Before her. And she looked
at us with folded arms, with an extraordinary fulness of
assumed responsibility. I addressed her,

"You don't believe in an accident, Mrs. Fyne, do you?'
She shook her head in curt negation, while, caked in
mud and inexpressibly serious-faced, Fyne seemed to be
backing her up with all the weight of his solemn presence.
Nothing more absurd could be conceived. It was deli-
cious. And I went on in deferential accents: 'Am I to
understand then that you entertain the theory of suicide?'

60 CHANCE

I don't know that I am liable to fits of delirium, but
by a sudden and alarming aberration while waiting for
her answer I became mentally aware of three trained dogs
dancing on their hind legs. I don't know why. Perhaps
because of the pervading solemnity. There's nothing
more solemn on earth than a dance of trained dogs.

'She has chosen to disappear. That's all.'

In these words Mrs. Fyne answered me. The aggres-
sive tone was too much for my endurance. In an instant
I found myself out of the dance and down on all fours, o
to speak, with liberty to bark and bite.

* The devil she has ! ' I cried. ' Has chosen to ....
Like this, all at once, anyhow, regardless. . . . I've
had the privilege of meeting that reckless and brusque
young lady and I must say that with her air of an angry
victim . . , . '

'Precisely, 5 Mrs. Fyne said very unexpectedly like
a steel trap going off. I stared at her. How provoking
she was! So I went on to finish my tirade. 'She struck
me at first sight as the most inconsiderate, wrong-headed
girl that I ever . . '

'Why should a girl be more considerate than any one
else? More than any man, for instance?' inquired Mrs.
Fyne with a still greater assertion of responsibility in her
bearing.

Of course I exclaimed at this, not very loudly, it is true,
but forcibly. Were then the feelings of friends, relations,
and even of strangers to be disregarded? I asked Mrs.
Fyne if she did not think it was a sort of duty to show
elementary consideration not only for the natural feelings,
but even for the prejudices of one's fellow creatures.

Her answer knocked me over.

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 61

'No I for a woman.'

Just like that. I confess that I went down flat. And
while in that collapsed state I learned the true nature of
Mrs. Fyne's feminist doctrine. It was not political, it was
not social. It was a knock-me-down doctrine a practi-
cal individualistic doctrine. You would not thank me
for expounding it to you at large. Indeed, I think that she
herself did not enlighten me fully. There must have been
things not fit for a mail to hear. But shortly, and as far as
my bewilderment allowed me to grasp its naive atrocious-
ness, it was something like this: that no consideration, no
delicacy, no tenderness, no scruples should stand in the
way of a woman (who by the mere fact of her sex was the
predestined victim of conditions created by men's selfish
passions, their vices and abominable tyranny) from taking
the shortest cut toward securing for herself the easiest
possible existence. She had even the right to go out of
existence without considering any one's feelings or con-
venience, since some women's existences were made impos-
sible by the shortsighted baseness of men.

I looked at her, sitting before the lamp at one o'clock
in the morning, with her mature, smooth-cheeked face
of masculine shape robbed of its freshness by fatigue;
at her eyes dimmed by this senseless vigil. I looked also
at Fyne; the mud was drying on him; he was obviously
tired. The weariness of solemnity. But he preserved
an unflinching, endorsing gravity of expression. En-
dorsing it all as became a good, convinced husband.

'Oh! I see,' I said. 'No consideration. . . .
Well, I hope you like it.'

They amused me beyond the wildest imaginings of
which I was capable. After the first shock, you under-

62 CHANCE

stand, I recovered very quickly. The or<ler of the world
was safe enough. He was a civil servant and she his
good and faithful wife. But when it comes to dealing
with human beings anything, anything may be expected.
So even my astonishment did not last very long. How
far she developed and illustrated that conscienceless and
austere doctrine to the girl-friends who were mere tran-
sient shadows to her husband, I could not tell. Any
length I supposed. And he looked on, acquiesced, ap-
proved, just for that very reason because these pretty
girls were but shadows to him. O most virtuous Fyne!
He cast his eyes clown. He didn't like it. But I eyed
him with hidden animosity, for he had got me to run after
him under somewhat false pretences.

Mrs. Fyne had only smiled at me very expressively,
very self -confidently. 'Oh I quite understand that you
accept the fullest responsibility,' I said. 'I am the
only ridiculous person in this this I don't know how
to call it performance. However, I've nothing more
to do here, so 1:11 say good-night or good-morning, for
it must be past one.'

But before departing, in common decency, I offered
to take any wires they might write. My lodgings were
nearer the post-office than the cottage, and I would send
them off the first thing in the morning. I supposed they
would wish to communicate, if only as to the disposal of
the luggage, with the young lady's relatives. . . .

Fyne, he looked rather downcast by then, thanked me
and declined.

'There is really no one,' he said, very grave.

'No one,' I exclaimed.

'Practically,' said curt Mrs. Fyne.

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL - FRIEND 03

And my curiosity was aroused again.

'Ah! I see. An orphan.'

Mrs. Fyne looked away weary and sombre, and Fyne
said 'Yes,' impulsively, and then qualified the affirmative
by the quaint statement: 'To a certain extent.'

I became conscious of a languid, exhausted embarrass-
ment, bowed to Mrs. Fyne, and went out of the cottage
to be confronted outside its door by the bespangled, cruel
revelation of the Immensity of the Universe. The night
was not sufficiently advanced for the stars to have paled;
and the earth seemed to me more profoundly asleep
perhaps because I was alone now. Not having Fyne with
me to set the pace I let myself drift, rather than walk,
in the direction of the farmhouse. To drift is the only
reposeful sort of motion (ask any ship if it isn't) and
therefore consistent with though tfulness. And I pon-
dered: How is one an orphan 'to a certain extent?'

No amount of solemnity could make such a statement
other than bizarre. What a strange condition to be in.
Very likely one of the parents only was dead? But no;
it couldn't be, since Fyne had said just before that "there
was really no one' to communicate with. No one!
And then remembering Mrs. Fyne's snappy 'Practically*
my thoughts fastened upon that lady as a more tangible
object of speculation.

I wondered and wondering I doubted whether she
really understood herself the theory she had propounded
to me. Everything may be said indeed ought to be
said providing we know how to say it. She probably
did not. She was not intelligent enough for that. She
had no knowledge of the world. She had got hold of words
as a child might get hold of some poisonous pills and play

64 CHANCE

with them for 'dear, tiny little marbles.' No! The
domestic-slave daughter of Carleon Anthony and the
little Fyne of the Civil Service (that flower of civilization)
were not intelligent people. They were commonplace,
earnest, without smiles and without guile. But he had
his solemnities and she had her reverjes, her lurid, violent,
crude reveries. And I thought with some sadness that
all these revolts and indignations, all these protests, re-
vulsions of feeling, pangs of suffering and of rage, ex-
pressed but the uneasiness of sensual beings trying for
their share in the joys of form, colour, sensations, the only
riches of our world of senses. A poet may be a simple
being, but h$ is bound to be various and full of wiles,
ingenious and irritable. I reflected on the variety of
ways the ingenuity of the late bard of civilization would
be able to invent for the tormenting of his dependents.
Poets not being generally foresighted in practical affairs,
no vision of consequences would restrain him. Yes,
the Fynes were excellent people, but Mrs. Fyne wasn't
the daughter of a domestic tyrant for nothing. There
were no limits to her revolt. But they were excellent people.
It was clear that they must have been extremely good to
that girl whose position in the world seemed somewhat diffi-
cult, with her face of a victim, her obvious lack of resigna-
tion and the bizarre status of orphan 'to a certain extent/
Such were my thoughts, but in truth I soon ceased to
trouble about all these people. I found that my lamp
had gone out, leaving behind an awful smell. I fled from
it up the stairs and went to bed in the dark. My slumbers
I suppose the one good in pedestrian exercise, confound
it, is that it helps our natural callousness my slumbers
were deep, dreamless, and refreshing.

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 65

My appetite at breakfast was not affected by my igno-
rance of the facts, motives, events, and conclusions. I
think that to understand everything is not good for the
intellect. A well-stocked intelligence weakens the impulse
to action; an overstocked one leads gently to idiocy.
But Mrs. Fyne's individualist woman-doctrine, naively
unscrupulous, flitted through my mind. The salad of
unprincipled notions she put into these girl-friends' heads!
Good, innocent creature, worthy wife, excellent mother
(of the strict governess type), she was as guileless of con-
sequences as any determinist philosopher ever was.

As to honour you know it's a very fine medieval
inheritance which women never got hold of. It wasn't
theirs. Since it may be laid as a general principle that
women always get what they want we must suppose they
didn't want it. In addition they are devoid of decency.
I mean masculine decency. Cautiousness too is foreign
to them - the heavy reasonable cautiousness which is our
glory. And if they had it they would make of it a thing
of passion, so that its own mother I mean the mother
of cautiousness wouldn't recognize it. Prudence with
them is a matter of thrill like the rest of sublunary con-
trivances. 'Sensation at any cost,' is their secret de-
vice. All the virtues are not enough for them; they want
also all the crimes for their own. And why? Because in
such completeness there is power the kind of thrill they
love most. , . .

"Do you expect me to agree to all this?" I interrupted.

"No, it isn't necessary," said Marlow, feeling the check
to his eloquence but with a great effort at amiability.
"You need not even understand it. I continue: with
such disposition what prevents women to use the

66 CHANCE

phrase an old boatswain of my acquaintance applied de-
scriptively to his captain what prevents them from
''coming on deck and playing hell with the ship" gener-
ally, is that something in them precise and mysterious, act-
ing both as restraint and as inspiration; their femininity
in short which they think they can get rid of by trying
hard, but can't, and never will. Therefore we may con-
clude that, for all their enterprises, the world is and re-
mains safe enough. Feeling, in my character of a lover of
peace, soothed by that conclusion I prepared myself to
enjoy a fine day.

And it was a fine day; a delicious day, with the horror
of the Infinite veiled by the splendid tent of blue; a day
innocently bright like a child with a washed face, fresh
like an innocent young girl, suave in welcoming one's re-
spects like like a Roman prelate. I love such days.
They are perfection for remaining indoors. And I enjoyed
it temperamentally in a chair, my feet up on the sill of the
open window, a book in my hands and the murmured
harmonies of wind and sun in my heart making an accom-
paniment to the rhythms of my author. Then looking up
from the page I saw outside a pair of gray eyes thatched
by ragged yellowy-white eyebrows gazing at me solemnly
over the toes of my slippers. There was a grave, fur-
rowed brow surmounting that portentous gaze, a brown
tweed cap set far back on the perspiring head.

"Come inside," I cried as heartily as my sinking heart
would permit.

After a short but severe scuffle with his dog at the outer
door, Fyne entered. I treated him without ceremony and
only waved my hand toward a chair. Even before he
sat down he gasped out:

THE FYNES AND THE GIRL-FRIEND 67

"We've heard midday post."

Gasped out ! The grave, immovable Fyne of the Civil
Service, gasped ! This was enough, you'll admit, to cause
me to put my feet to the ground swiftly. That fellow was
always making me do things in subtle discord with my
meditative temperament. No wonder that I had but a
qualified liking for him. I said with just a suspicion of
jeering tone :

"Of course. I told you last night on the road that it
was a farce we were engaged in."

He made the little parlour resound to its foundations
with a note of anger positively sepulchral in its depth of
tone. "Farce be hanged ! She has bolted with my wife's
brother, Captain Anthony." This outburst was followed
by complete subsidence. He faltered miserably as he
added from force of habit: "The son of the poet, you
know."

A silence fell. Fyne's several expressions were so many
examples of varied consistency. This was the discom-
fiture of solemnity. My interest of course was revived.

"But hold on," I said. "They didn't go together. Is
it a suspicion or does she actually say that. . . ."

"She has gone after him," stated Fyne in comminatory
tones. "By previous arrangement. She confesses that
much."

He added that it was very shocking. I asked him
whether he should have preferred them going off together;
and on what ground he based that preference. This was
sheer fun for me in regard of the fact that Fyne's too was
a runaway match, which even got into the papers in its
time, because the late indignant poet had no discretion
and sought to avenge this outrage publicly in some abeurd

68 CHANCE

way before a bewigged judge. The dejected gesture of
little Fyne's hand disarmed my mocking mood. But I
could not help expressing my surprise that Mrs. Fyne had
not detected at once what was brewing. Women were
supposed to have an unerring eye.

He told me that his wife had been very much engaged in
a certain work. I had always wondered how she occupied
her time. It was in writing. Like her husband she too
published a little book. It had nothing to do with
pedestrianism. It was a sort of hand-book for women
with grievances (and all women had them), a sort 01
compendious theory and practice of feminine free morality.
It made you laugh at its transparent simplicity. But
that authorship was revealed to me much later. I didn't
of course ask Fyne what work his wife was engaged on;
but I marvelled to myself at her complete ignorance of
the world, of her own sex, and of the other kind of sinners.
Yet, where could she have got any experience? Her
father had kept her strictly cloistered. Marriage with
Fyne was certainly a change but only to another kind of
claustration. You may tell me that the ordinary powers
of observation ought to have been enough. Why, yes!
But then, as she had set up for a guide and teacher, there
was nothing surprising for me in the discovery that she
was blind. That's quite in order. She was a profoundly
innocent person; only it would not have been proper to
tell her husband so.

CHAPTER THREE

THRIFT AND THE CHILD

BUT there was nothing improper in my observing to
Fyne that, last night, Mrs. Fyne seemed to have
some idea where that enterprising young lady had
gone to. Fyne shook his head. No; his wife had been
by no means so certain as she had pretended to be. She
merely had her reasons to think, to hope, that the girl
might have taken a room somewhere in London, had
buried herself in town in readiness or perhaps in horror
of the approaching day

He ceased and sat solemnly dejected, in a brown study.
"What day?" I asked at last; but he did not hear me
apparently. He diffused such portentous gloom into the
atmosphere that I lost patience with him.

"What on earth are you so dismal about?" I cried,
being genuinely surprised and puzzled. "One would
think the girl was a state prisoner under your care."

And suddenly I became still more surprised at myself
at the way I had somehow taken for granted things which
did appear queer when one thought them out.

"But why this secrecy? Why did they elope if it
is an elopement? Was the girl afraid of yoiir wife? And
your brother-in-law? What on earth posessed him to
make a clandestine match of it? Was he afraid of your
wife too?"

Fyne made an effort to rouse himself.

69

70 CHANCE

"Of course my brother-in-law, Captain Anthony, the
son of . . ." He checked himself as if trying to
break a bad habit. " He would be persuaded by her. We
have been most friendly to the girl!"

"She struck me as a foolish and inconsiderate little
person. But why should you and your wife take to heart
so strongly mere folly or even a want of consideration? "

"It's the most unscrupulous action," declared Fyne
weightily and sighed.

"I suppose she is poor," I observed after a short silence.
"But after all . . ."

"You don't know who she is?" Fyne had regained his
average solemnity.

I confessed that I had not caught her name when his
wife had introduced us to each other. "It was something
beginning with an S wasn't it?" And then with the
utmost coolness Fyne remarked that it did not matter.
The name was not her name.

"Do you mean to say that you made a young lady
known to me under a false name?" I asked, with the
amused feeling that the days of wonders and portents
had not passed away yet. That the eminently serious
Fynes should do such an exceptional thing was simply
staggering. With a more hasty enunciation than usual
little Fyne was sure that I would not demand an apology
for this irregularity if I knew what her real name was.
A sort of warmth crept into his deep tone.

"We have tried to befriend that girl in every way.
She is the daughter and only child of de Barral."

Evidently he expected to produce a sensation; he kept
his eyes fixed upon me prepared for some sign of it. But
I merely returned his intense, awaiting gaze. For a time

THRIFT AND THE CHILD 71

we stared at each other. Conscious of being reprehensibly
dense I groped in the darkness of my mind: de Barral,
de Barral and all at once noise and light burst on me
as if a window of my memory had been suddenly flung
open on a street in the city. De Barral! But could it
be the same? Surely not!

"The financier?" I suggested half incredulous.

"Yes," said Fyne; and in this instance his native
solemnity of tone seemed to be strangely appropriate.
"The convict. . . ."

Marlow looked at me, significantly and remarked in an
explanatory tone:

"One somehow never thought of de Barral as having
any children, or any other home than the offices of the
'Orb'; or any other existence, associations, or interests
than financial. I see you remember the crash.

"I was away in the Indian Seas at the time," I said.
"But of course "

"Of course," Marlow struck in. "All the world.
You may wonder at my slowness in recognizing the name.
But you know that my memory is merely a mausoleum
of proper names. There they lie inanimate, awaiting the
magic touch and not very prompt in arising when called
either. The name is the first thing I forget of a man. It
is but just to add that frequently it is also the last, and
this accounts for my possession of a good many anony-
mous memories. In de Barral's case, he got put away in
my mausoleum in company with so many names of his own
creation that really he had to throw off a monstrous heap
of grisly bones before he stood before me at the call of
the wizard Fyne. The fellow had a pretty fancy in
names: the 'Orb' Deposit Bank, the 'Sceptre' Mutual

72 CHANCE

Aid Society, the ' Thrift and Independence' Association,
Yes, a very pretty taste in names; and nothing else
besides absolutely nothing no other merit. Well,
yes. He had another name, but that's pure luck his
own name of de Barral which he did not invent. I don't
think that a mere Jones or Brown could have fished out
from the depths of the Incredible such a colossal manifes-
tation of human folly as that man did. But it may be
that I am underestimating the alacrity of human folly in
rising to the bait. No doubt I am. The greed of that
absurd monster is incalculable, unfathomable, inconceiv-
able. The career of de Barral demonstrates that it will
rise to a naked hook. He didn't lure it with a fairy tale.
He hadn't enough imagination for it. . . ."

"Was he a foreigner?" I asked. "It's clearly a French
name. I suppose it was his name?"

"Oh, he didn't invent it. He was born to it, in Bethnal
Green, as it came out during the proceedings. He was in
the habit of alluding to his Scotch connections. But
every great man has done that. The mother, I believe,
was Scotch, right enough. The father de Barral, whatever
his origin, retired from the Customs Service (tide-water,
I think), and started lending money in a very, very small
way in the East End to people connected with the docks,
stevedores, minor barge-owners, ship-chandlers, tally
clerks, all sorts of very small fry. He made his living
at it. He was a very decent man, I believe. He had
enough influence to place his only son as junior clerk in
the account department of one of the Dock Companies.
'Now, my boy,' he said to him. 'I've given you a fine
start.' But de Barral didn't start. He stuck. He gave
perfect satisfaction. At the end of three years he got a

THRIFT AND THE CHILD 73

small rise of salary and went out courting in the evenings.
He went courting the daughter of an old sea-captain who
was a churchwarden of his parish and lived in an old
badly preserved Georgian house with a garden: one of
those houses standing in a reduced bit of * grounds' that
you discover in a labyrinth of the most sordid streets, ex-
actly alike and composed of six-roomed hutches.

Some of them were the vicarages of slum parishes.
The old sailor had got hold of one cheap, and de Barral
got hold of his daughter which was a good bargain for
him. The old sailor was very good to the young couple
and very fond of their little girl. Mrs. de Barral was an
equable, unassuming woman, at that time with a fund of
simple gayety and with no ambitions; but, woman-like,
she longed for change and for something interesting to
happen now and then. It was she who encouraged de
Barral to accept the offer of a post in the West End branch
of a great bank. It appears he shrank from such a great
adventure for a long time. At last his wife's arguments
prevailed. Later on she used to say: "It's the only time
he ever listened to me; and I wonder now if it hadn't
been better for me to die before I ever made him go into
that bank/

You may be surprised at my knowledge of these details.
Well, I had them ultimately from Mrs. Fyne. Mrs. Fyne,
while yet Miss Anthony, in her days of bondage, knew
Mrs. de Barral in her days of exile. Mrs. de Barral was
living then in a big stone mansion with mullioned windows
in a large damp park, called the Priory, adjoining the vil-
lage where the refined poet had built himself a house.

These were the days of de Barral's success. He had
bought the place without ever seeing it and had packed

74 CHANCE

off his wife and child at once there to take possession.
He did not know what to do with them in London. He
himself had a suite of rooms in a hotel. He gave there
dinner parties followed by cards in the evening. He
had developed the gambling passion or else a mere card
mania but at any rate he played heavily, for relaxation
with a lot of dubious hangers-on.

1 Meantime Mrs. de Barral, expecting him every day,
lived at the Priory, with a carriage and pair, a governess
for the child and many servants. The village people
would see her through the railings wandering under the
trees with her little girl lost in her strange surroundings.
Nobody ever came near her. And there she died as some
faithful and delicate animals die from neglect, absolutely
from neglect, rather unexpectedly and without any fuss.
The village was sorry for her, because, though obviously
worried about something, she was good to the poor and
was always ready for a chat with any of the humble folks.
Of course they knew that she wasn't a lady not what
you would call a real lady. And even her acquaintance
with Miss Anthony was only a cottage-door, a village-
street acquaintance. Carleon Anthony was a tremendous
aristocrat (his father had been a 'restoring' arckitect),
and his daughter was not allowed to associate with any one
but the county young ladies. Nevertheless in defiance of
the poet's wrathful concern for undefiled refinement there
were some quiet, melancholy strolls to and fro in the great
avenue of chestnuts leading to the park-gate, during
which Mrs. de Barral came to call Miss Anthony 'my
dear' and even 'my poor dear.' The lonely soul had
no one to talk to but that not very happy girl. The
governess despised her. The housekeeper was distant in

THRIFT AND THE CHILD 75

her manner. Moreover, Mrs. de Barral was no foolish
gossiping woman. But she made some confidences to
Miss Anthony. Such wealth was a terrific thing to have
thrust upon one she affirmed. Once she went so far as to
confess that she was dying with anxiety. Mr. de Barral
(so she referred to him) had been an excellent husband
and an exemplary father but 'you see, my dear, I have had
a great experience of him. I am sure he won't know what
to do with all that money people are giving to him to take
care of for them. He's as likely as not to do something
rash. When he comes here I must have a good long seri-
ous talk with him, like the talks we often used to have
together in the good old times of our life.* > And then one
day a cry of anguish was wrung from her: 'My dear, he
will never come here, he will never, never come!*

She was wrong. He came to the funeral, was extremely
cut up, and holding the child tightly by the hand wept
bitterly at the side of the grave. Miss Anthony, at the
cost of a whole week of sneers and abuse from the poet, saw
it all with her own eyes. De Barral clung to the child like
a drowning man. He managed, though, to catch the
half -past five fast train, travelling to town alone in a re-
served compartment, with all the blinds down ..."

"Leaving the child?" I said interrogatively.

"Yes. Leaving ... He shirked the problem.
He was born that way. He had no idea what to do with
her or for that matter with anything or anybody including
himself. He bolted back to his suite of rooms in the hotel.
He was the most helpless . . . She might have been
left in the Priory to the end of time had not the high-toned
governess threatened to send in her resignation. Sue
didn't care for the child a bit, and the lonely, gloomy

76 CHANCE

Priory had got on her nerves. She wasn't going to put
up with such a life and, having just come out of some
ducal family, she bullied de Barral in a very lofty fashion.
To pacify her he took a splendidly furnished house in the
most expensive part of Brighton for them, and now and
then ran down for a week-end, with a trunk full of exquisite
sweets and with his hat full of money. The governess
spent it for him in extra ducal style. She was nearly
forty and harboured a secret taste for patronizing young
men of sorts of a certain sort. But of that Mrs. Fyne,
of course, had no personal knowledge then; she told me,
however, that even in the Priory days she had suspected
her of being an artificial, heartless, vulgar-minded woman
with the lowest possible ideals. But de Barral did not
know it. He literally did not know anything . . . "

"But tell me, Marlow," I interrupted, "how do you
account for this opinion? He must have been a per-
sonality in a sense in some one sense surely. You don't
work the greatest material havoc of a decade at least, in
a commercial community without having something in
you."

Marlow shook his head.

"He was a mere sign, a portent. There was nothing in
him. Just about that time the word Thrift was to the
fore. You know the power of words. We pass through
periods dominated by this or that word it may be devel-
opment, or it may be competition, or education, or purity,
or efficiency, or even sanctity. It is the word of the time.
Well just then it was the word Thrift which was out in
the streets walking arm in arm with righteousness, the
inseparable companion and backer-up of all such national
catch-words, looking everybody in the eye as it were.

THBJLFT AMD THE CHILD 77

The very drabs of the pavement, poor things, didn't
escape the fascination . . . However!
Well the greatest portion of the press were screeching in
all possible tones, like a confounded company of parrots
instructed by some devil with a taste for practical jokes,
that the financier de Barral was helping the great moral
evolution of our character toward the newly discovered
virtue of Thrift. He was helping it by all these great es-
tablishments of his which made the moral merits of Thrift
manifest to the most callous hearts simply by promising
to pay 10 per cent, interest on all deposits. And you
didn't want necessarily to belong to the well-to-do classes
in order to participate in the advantages of virtue. If you
had but a spare sixpence in the world and went and gave
it to de Barral it was Thrift! It's quite likely that he
himself believed it. He must have. It's inconceivable
that he alone should stand out against the infatuation of
the whole world. He hadn't enough intelligence for that.
But to look at him one couldn't tell ..."

"You did see him then?" I said with some curiosity.

"I did. Strange, isn't it? It was only once, but as
I sat with the distressed Fyne who had suddenly resus-
citated his name buried in my memory with other dead
labels of the past, I may say I saw him again, I saw him
with great vividness of recollection, as he appeared in the
days of his glory or splendour. No! Neither of these
words will fit his success. There was never any glory or
splendour about that figure. Well, let us say in the days
when he was, according to the majority of the daily press,
a financial force working for the improvement of the
character of the people. I'll tell you how it came
about.

78 CHANCE

At that time I used to know a podgy, wealthy, bald
little man having chambers in the Albany; a financier,
too, in his way, carrying out transactions of an intimate
nature and of no moral character; mostly with young
men of birth and expectations though I daresay he
didn't withhold his ministrations from elderly plebeians,
either. He was a true democrat; he would have done
business (a sharp kind of business) with the devil himself.
Everything was fly that came into his web. He received
the applicants in an alert, jovial fashion which was quite
surprising. It gave relief without giving too much con-
fidence, which was just as well perhaps. His business
was transacted in an apartment furnished like a drawing-
room, the walls hung with several brown, heavily framed,
oil paintings. I don't know if they were good, but they
were big, and with their elaborate, tarnished gilt-frames
had a melancholy dignity. The man himself sat at a
shining, inlaid writing-table which looked like a rare piece
from a museum of art; his chair had a high, oval, carved
back, upholstered in faded tapestry; and these objects
made of the costly black Havana cigar, which he rolled
incessantly from the middle to the left corner of his mouth,
and back again, an inexpressibly cheap and nasty object.
I had to see him several times in the interest of a poor
devil so unlucky that he didn't even have a more com*
petent friend than myself to speak for him at a very diffi-
cult time in his life.

I don't know at what hour my private financier began
his day, but he used to give one appointments at unheard
of times: such as a quarter to eight in the morning, for
instance. On arriving one found him busy at that marvel-
lous writing-table, looking very fresh and alert, exhaling a

THRIFT AND THE CHILD 79

faint fragrance of scented soap and with the cigar already
well alight. You may believe that I entered on my mission
with many unpleasant forebodings; but there was In that
fat, admirably washed, little man such a profound con-
tempt for mankind that it amounted to a species of good
nature; which, unlike the milk of genuine kindness, was
never in danger of turning sour. Then, once, during a
pause in business, while we were waiting for the produc-
tion of a document for which he had sent (perhaps to the
cellar?) I happened to remark, glancing round the room,
that I had never seen so many fine things assembled to-
gether out of a collection. Whether this was unconscious
diplomacy on my part, or not, I shouldn't like to say
but the remark was true enough, and it pleased him ex-
tremely. "It is a collection," he said emphatically.
"Only I live right in it, which most collectors don't. But
I see that you know what you are looking at. Not many
people who come here on business, do. Stable fittings are
more in their way,"

I don't know whether my appreciation helped to ad-
vance my friend's business, but at any rate it helped our
intercourse. He treated me with a shade of familiarity as
one of the initiated.

The last time I called on him to conclude the transaction
we were interrupted by a person, something like a cross
between a bookmaker and a private secretary, who, enter-
ing through a door which was not the anteroom door,
walked up and stooped to whisper into his ear.

"Eh? What? Who did you say?"

The nondescript person stooped and whispered again,
adding a little louder: "Says he won't detain you a
moment."

80 CHANCE

My little man glanced at me, said "Ah! Well/* irreso-
lutely. I got up from my chair and offered to come again
later. He looked whimsically alarmed. "No, no. It's
bad enough to lose my money, but I don't want to waste
any more of my time over your friend. We must be done
with this to-day. Just go and have a look at that garni-
ture de cheminee yonder. There's another, something like
it, in the castle of Laeken, but mine's much superior in
design."

I moved accordingly to the other side of that big room.
The garniture was very fine. But, while pretending to
examine it, I watched my man going forward to meet a tall
visitor who said, "I thought you would be disengaged so
early. It's only a word or two" and after a whispered
confabulation of no more than a minute, reconduct him to
the door and shake hands ceremoniously. "Not at all,
not at all. Very pleased to be of use. You can depend
absolutely on my information" "Oh, thank you, thank
you. I just looked in." "Certainly, quite right. Any
time. . . . Good morning."

I had a good look at the visitor while they were exchang-
ing these civilities. He was clad in black. I remember
perfectly that he wore a flat, broad, black satin tie in which
was stuck a large cameo pin; and a small turn-down
collar. His hair, discoloured and silky, curled slightly
over his ears. His cheeks were hairless and round, and
apparently soft. He held himself very upright, walked
with small steps, and spoke gently in an inward voice.
Perhaps from contrast with the magnificent polish of the
room and the neatness of its owner, he struck me as dingy,
indigent, and, if not exactly humble, then much subdued
by evil fortune.

THRIFT AND THE CHILD 81

I wondered greatly at my fat little financier's civility to
Jhat dubious personage when he asked me, as we resumed
our respective seats, whether I knew who it was that had
just gone out. On my shaking my head negatively he
smiled queerly, said " de Barral," and enjoyed my sur-
prise. Then becoming grave: "Thar's a deep fellow, if
you like. We all know where he started from and where
he got to; but nobody knows what he means to do." He
became thoughtful for a moment and added as if speaking
to himself, "I wonder what his game is."

And, you know, there was no game, no game of any sort,
or shape, or kind. It came out plainly at the trial. As
I've told you before, he was a clerk in a bank, like thou-
sands of others. He got that berth as a second start in
life and there he stuck again, giving perfect satisfaction.
Then one day as though a supernatural voice had whis-
pered into his ear or some invisible fly had stung him, he
put on his hat, went out into the street and began adver-
tising. That's absolutely all that there was to it. He
caught in the street the word of the time and harnessed it
to his preposterous chariot.

One remembers his first modest advertisements headed
with the magic word Thrift, Thrift, Thrift, thrice repeated
promising 10 per cent, on all deposits and giving the
address of the Thrift and Independence Aid Association
in Vauxhall Bridge Road. Apparently nothing more was
necessary. He didn't even explain what he meant to do
with the money he asked the public to pour into his lap.
Of course he meant to lend it out at high rates of interest.
He did so but he did it without system, plan, foresight,
or judgment. And as he frittered away the sums that
flowed in, he advertised for more and got it. During a

82 CHANCE

period of general business prosperity he set up the Orb
Bank and the Sceptre Trust, simply, it seems, for
advertising purposes. They were mere names. He was
totally unable to organize anything, to promote any sort
of enterprise if it were only for the purpose of juggling with
the shares. At that time he could have had for the asking
any number of dukes, retired generals active M.P/s,
ex-ambassadors and so on as directors to sit at the wildest
boards of his invention. But he never tried. He had
no real imagination. All he could do was to publish
more advertisements and open more branch offices of the
Thrift and Independence, of the Orb, of the Sceptre
for the receipt of deposits; first in this town, then
in that town, north and south everywhere he could
find suitable premises at a moderate rent. For this was
the great characteristic of the management. Modesty,
moderation, simplicity. Neither the Orb nor the Sceptre
nor yet their parent the Thrift and Independence had
built for themselves the usual palaces. For this abstention
they were praised in silly public prints as illusl ruling m
their management the principle of Thrift for wluV-i
they were founded. The fact is that de Ikirn !
simply didn't think of it. Of course he had soon movr. I
from Vauxhall Bridge Road. He knew enough icr
that. What he got hold of next was an old, enormous,
rat-infested brick house in a small street off the Strand.
Strangers were taken in front of the meanest possible,
begrimed, yellowy, flat brick wall, wilh two rows of
unadorned window-holes one above the other, and were
exhorted with bated breath to behold and admire the
simplicity of the headquarters of the financial force of the
day. The word THRIFT perched right up on the roof in

THRIFT AND THE CHILD 83

gilt letters, and two enormous shield-like brass-plates
curved round the corners on each side of the doorway
were the only shining spots in de Barral's business outfit.
Nobody knew what operations were carried on inside
except this that if you walked in and tendered your
money over the counter it would be calmly taken from you
by somebody who would give you a printed receipt. That
and no more. It appears that such knowledge is irresisti-
ble. People went in and tendered; and once it was taken
from their hands their money was more irretrievably gone
from them than if they had thrown it into the sea. This,
then, and nothing else was being carried 011 in there . . ."

"Come, Marlow," I said, "you exaggerate surely if
only by your way of putting things. It's too startling."

"I exaggerate!" he defended himself. "My way of
putting things! My dear fellow, I have merely stripped
the rags of business verbiage and financial jargon off my
statements. And you arc startled! I am giving you the
naked truth. It's true, too, that nothing lays itself open
to the charge of exaggeration more than the language of
naked truth. What comes with a shock is admitted with
difficulty. I*ut what will you say to the end of his career?

It was of course sensational and tolerably sudden.
It began with the Orb Deposit Bank. Under the name
of that institution de Barral with the frantic obsti-
nacy of an unimaginative man had been financing an In-
dian prince who was prosecuting a claim for immense sums
of money against the government. It was an enormous
number of scores of lakhs a miserable remnant of his
ancestors' treasures that sort of thing. And it was all
authentic enough. There was a real prince; and the
claim, too, was sufficiently real only unfortunately it was

84 CHANCE

not a valid claim. So the prince lost his case on the last
appeal and the beginning of de BarraFs end became mani-
fest to the public in the shape of a half -sheet of notepaper
wafered by the four corners on the closed door of the
Orb offices notifying that payment was stopped at that
establishment.

Its consort the Sceptre collapsed within the week.
I won't say in American parlance that suddenly the bottom
fell out of the whole of de Barral concerns. There never
had been any bottom to it. It was like the cask of
Danaides into which the public had been pleased to pour
its deposits. That they were gone was clear; and the
bankruptcy proceedings w T hich followed were like a sinister
farce, bursts of laughter in a setting of mute anguish
that of the depositors; hundreds of thousands of them.
The laughter was irresistible; the accompaniment of the
bankrupt's public examination.

I don't know if it was from utter lack of all imagination
or from the possession in undue proportion of a particular
kind of it, or from both and the three alternatives are
possible but it was discovered that this man who had
been raised to such a height by the credulity of the public
was himself more gullible than any of his depositors. He
had been a prey of all sorts of swindlers, adventurers,
visionaries, and even lunatics. Wrapping himself up in
deep and imbecile secrecy he had gone in for the most fan-
tastic schemes: a harbour and docks on the coast of
Patagonia, quarries in Labrador such like speculations.
Fisheries to feed a canning factory on the banks of the
Amazon was one of them. A principality to be bought in
Madagascar was another. As the grotesque details of
these incredible transactions came out one by one ripples

THRIFT AND THE CHILD 85

of laughter ran over the closely packed court each one
a little louder than the other. The audience ended by
fairly roaring under the cumulative effect of absurdity.
The Registrar laughed, the barristers laughed, the report-
ers laughed, the serried ranks of the miserable depositors,
watching anxiously every word, laughed like one man.
They laughed hysterically the poor wretches on the
verge of tears.

There was only one person who remained unmoved.
It was de Barral himself. He preserved his serene, gentle
expression, I am told (for I have not witnessed those scenes
myself), and looked around at the people with an air of
placid sufficiency which was the first hint to the world of
the man's overweening, unmeasurable conceit, hidden
hitherto under a diffident manner. It could be seen, too, in
his dogged assertion that if he had been given enough time
and a lot more money everything would have come right.
And there were some people (yes, amongst his very victims)
who more than half believed him, even after the criminal
prosecution which soon followed. When placed in the
dock he lost his steadiness as if some sustaining illusion
had gone to pieces within him suddenly. He ceased to be
himself in manner completely, and even in disposition, in
so far that his faded neutral eyes, matching his discoloured
hair so well, were discovered then to be capable of expres-
sing a sort of underhand hate. He was at first defiant, then
insolent, then broke down and burst into tears; but it
might have been from rage. Then he calmed down, re-
turned to his soft manner of speech and to that unassuming,
quiet bearing which was usual with him even in his great-
est days. But it seemed as though in this moment of
change he had at last perceived what a power he had been;

86 CHANCE

for he remarked to one of the prosecuting counsel who had
assumed a lofty moral tone in questioning him, that
yes, he had gambled he liked cards but that only a
year ago a host of smart people would have been only too
pleased to take a hand at cards with him. Yes he went
on some of the very people who were there accommo-
dated with seats on the bench; and turning upon the
counsel, "You yourself as well," he cried. He could have
had half the town at his rooms to fawn upon him if he
had cared for that sort of thing. "Why, now I think of
it, it took me most of my time to keep people, just of your
sort, off me," he ended with a good-humoured, quite
unobtrusive, contempt, as though the fact had dawned
upon him for the first time.

This was the moment, the only moment, when he had
perhaps all the audience in court with him, in a hush of
dreary silence. And then the dreary proceedings were
resumed. For all the outside excitement it was the most
dreary of all celebrated trials. The bankruptcy pro-
ceedings had exhausted all the laughter there was in it.
Only the fact of widespread ruin remained and the resent-
ment of a mass of people for having been fooled by means
too simple to save their self-respect from a deep wound
which the cleverness of a consummate scoundrel would
not have inflicted. A shamefaced amazement attended
these proceedings in which de Barral was not being
exposed alone. For himself his only cry was: Time!
Time! Time would have set everything right. In time
some of these speculations of his were certain to have
succeeded. He repeated this defence, this excuse, this
confession of faith, with wearisome iteration. Every-
thing he had done or left undone had been to gain time.

THRIFT AND THE CHILD 87

He had hypnotized himself with the word. Sometimes,
I am told, his appearance was ecstatic, his motionless,
pale eyes seemed to be gazing down the vista of future
ages. Time and of course, more money. "Ah! If
only you had left me alone for a couple of years more,"
he cried once in accents of passionate belief. "The
money was coming in all right." The deposits you under-
stand the savings of Thrift. Oh, yes, they had been
coming in to the very last moment. And he regretted
them. He had arrived to regard them as his own by a
sort of mystical persuasion. And yet it was a perfectly
true cry, when he turned once more on the counsel who
was beginning a question with the words: "You have had
all these immense sums . . . with the indignant
retort, "What have I had out of them?"

It was perfectly true. He had had nothing out of
them nothing of the prestigious or the desirable things
of the earth, craved for by predatory natures. He had
gratified no tastes, had known no luxury; he had built
no gorgeous palaces, had formed no splendid galleries
out of these "immense sums." He had not even a home.
He had gone into these rooms in a hotel and had stuck
there for years, giving no doubt perfect satisfaction to the
management. They had twice raised his rent to show, 1
suppose, their high sense of his distinguished patronage.
He had bought for himself out of all the wealth streaming
through his fingers neither adulation nor love, neither
splendour nor comfort. There was something perfect in
his consistent mediocrity. His very vanity seemed to
miss the gratification of even the mere show of power. In
the days when he was most fully in the public eye the in-
vincible obscurity of his origin clung to him like a shadowy

88 CHANCE

garment. He had handled millions without ever enjoying
anything of what is counted as precious in the community
of men, because he had neither the brutality of tempera-
ment nor the fineness of mind to make him desire them
with the will power of a masterful adventurer. . . ."

"You seem to have studied the man," I observed.

"Studied," repeated Marlow thoughtfully. "No!
Not studied. I had no opportunities. You know that I
saw him only on that one occasion I told you of. But
may be that a glimpse and no more is the proper way of
seeing an individuality; and de Barral was that, in virtue
of his very deficiencies, for they made of him something
quite unlike one's preconceived ideas. There were also
very few materials accessible to a man like me to form a
judgment from. But in such a case I verily believe that
a little is as good as a feast perhaps better. If one has
a taste for that kind of thing the merest starting-point
becomes a coign of vantage, and then by a series of logi-
cally deducted verisimilitudes one arrives at truth or very
near the truth as near as any circumstantial evidence
can do. I have not studied de Barral, but that is how I
understand him so far as he could be understood through
the din of the crash; the wailing and gnashing of teeth, the
newspaper contents bills, "The Thrift Frauds. Cross-
examination of the accused. Extra special' blazing
fiercely; the charitable appeals for the victims, the grave
tones of the dailies rumbling with compassion as if they
were the national bowels. All this lasted a whole week of
industrious sittings. A pressman whom I knew told me,
"He's an idiot." Which was possible. Before that I
overheard once somebody declaring that he had a criminal
type of face; which I knew was untrue. The sentence was

THRIFT AND THE CHILD 89

pronounced by artificial light in a stifling, poisonous atmos-
phere. Something edifying was said by the judge weight-
ily, about the retribution overtaking the perpetrator of
"the most heartless frauds on an unprecedented scale. "
I don't understand these things much, but it appears that
he had juggled with accounts, cooked balance sheets, had
gathered in deposits months after he ought to have known
himself to be helplessly insolvent, and done enough of
other things highly reprehensible in the eyes of the law, to
earn for himself seven years' penal servitude. The sen-
tence making its way outside met with a good reception.
A small mob composed mainly of people who themselves
did not look particularly clever and scrupulous, leavened
by a slight sprinkling of genuine pickpockets, amused itself
by cheering in the most penetrating, abominable cold
drizzle that I remember. I happened to be passing there
on my way from the East End where I had spent my day
about the docks with an old chi ten who was looking after
the fitting out of a new ship. I am always eager, when
allowed, to call on a new ship. They interest me like
charming young persons.

I got mixed up in that crowd seething with an animosity
as senseless as things of the street always are, and it was
while I was laboriously making my way out of it that the
pressman of whom I spoke was jostled against me. He
did me the justice to be surprised. "What? You here!
The last person in the world ... If I had known I
could have got you inside. Plenty of room. Interest
been over for the last three days. Got seven years. Well
I am glad."

"Why are you glad? Because he's got seven years?
T asked, greatly incommoded by the pressure of a hulking

00 CHANCE

fellow who was remarking to some of his equally oppressive
friends that the "beggar ought to have been poleaxed." I
don't know whether he had ever confided his savings to de
Barral, but if so, judging from his appearance, they must
have been the proceeds of some successful burglary. The
pressman by my side said "No, " to my question. He was
glad because it was all over. He had suffered greatly from
the heat and the bad air of the court. The clammy, raw
chill of the streets seemed to affect his liver instantly.
He became contemptuous and irritable and plied his el-
bows viciously making way for himself and me.

A dull affair this. All such cases were dull. No really
dramatfc moments. The bookkeeping of the Orb and all
the rest of them was certainly a burlesque revelation but
the public did not care for revelations of that kind. Dull
dog that de Barral he grumbled. He could not or
would not take the trouble to characterize for me the ap-
pearance of that man now officially a criminal (we had gone
across the road for a drink) , but told me with a sourly, de-
risive snigger that, after the sentence had been pronounced,
the fellow clung to the dock long enough to make a sort of
protest. "You haven't given me time. If I had been
given time I would have ended by being made a peer like
some of them." And he had permitted himself his very
first and last gesture in all these days, raising a hard-
clenched fist above his head.

The pressman disapproved of that manifestation. It
was not his business to understand it. Is it ever the
business of any pressman to understand anything? i
guess not. It would lead him too far away from the
actualities which are the daily bread of the public mind.
,He probably thought the display worth very little from a

THRIFT AND THE CHILD 91

picturesque point of view; the weak voice, the colourless
jrersonality as incapable of an attitude as a bed-post;
the very fatuity of the clenched hand so ineffectual at
that time and place no, it wasn't worth much. And
then, for him, an accomplished craftsman in his trade,
thinking was distinctly "bad business." His business
was to write a readable account. But I who had nothing
to write, permitted myself to use my mind as we sat
before our still untouched glasses. And the disclosure
which so often rewards a moment of detachment from
mere visual impressions gave me a thrill very much ap-
proaching a shudder. I seemed to understand that, with
the shock of the agonies and perplexities of his trial, the
imagination of that man, whose moods, notions, and mo-
tives wore frequently an air of grotesque mystery that
his imagination had been at last roused into activity.
And this was awful. Just try to enter into the feelings of
a man whose imagination wakes up at the very moment
he is about to enter the tomb. . . ."

"You must not think," went on Marlow after a pause*
"that on that morning with Fyne I went consciously in
iny mind over all this, let us call it information; no, better
say, this fund of knowledge which I had, or rather which
existed, in me in regard to de Barral. Information is
something one goes out to seek and puts away when found
as you might do a piece of lead: ponderous, useful, unvi-
brating, dull. Whereas knowledge comes to one, this
sort of knowledge, a chance acquisition preserving in its
repose a fine resonant quality. . . . But as such dis-
tinctions touch upon the transcendental I shall spare you
the pain of listening to them, There are limits to my

92 CHANCE

cruelty. No! I didn't reckon up carefully in my mind
all this I have been telling you. How could I have done
so, with Fyne right there in the room? He sat perfectly
still, statuesque in homely fashion, after having delivered
himself of his effective assent: "Yes. The convict,"
and I, far from indulging in a reminiscent excursion into
the past, remained sufficiently in the present to muse in a
vague, absent-minded way on the respectable proportions
and on the (upon the whole) comely shape of his great
pedestrian's calves, for he had thrown one leg over his
knee, carelessly, to conceal the trouble of his mind by an
air of ease. But all the same the knowledge was in me
the awakened resonance of which I spoke just now; I was
aware of it on that beautiful day, so fresh, so warm and
friendly, so accomplished an exquisite courtesy of the
much-abused English climate when it makes up its me-
teorological mind to behave like a perfect gentleman.
Of course the English climate is never a rough. It suffers
from spleen somewhat frequently but that is gentle-
manly, too, and I don't mind going to meet him in that
mood. He has his days of gray, veiled, polite melancholy,
in which he is very fascinating. How seldom he lapses
into a blustering manner, after all ! And then it is mostly
in a season when, appropriately enough, one may go out
and kill something. But his fine days are the best for
stopping at home, to read, to think, to muse even to
dream; in fact to live fully, intensely and quietly, in the
brightness of comprehension, in that receptive glow of the
mind, the gift of the clear, luminous and serene weather.
That day I had intended to live intensely and quietly,
basking in the weather's glory which would have lent
enchantment to the most unpromising of intellectual pros-

THRIFT AND THE CHILD 93

pects. For a companion I had found a book, not bemused
with the cleverness of the day a fine-weather book,
simple and sincere like the talk of an unselfish friend.
But looking at little Fyne seated in the room I understood
that nothing would come of my contemplative aspirations;
that in one way or another I should be let in for some form
of severe exercise. Walking, it would be, I feared, since,
for me, that idea was inseparably associated with the
visual impression of Fyne. Where, why, how a rapid
striding rush could be brought in helpful relation to the
good Fyne's present trouble and perplexity I could not
imagine; except on the principle that senseless pedestrian-
ism was Fyne's panacea for all the ills and evils bodily
and spiritual of the universe. It could be of no use for
me to say or do anything. It was bound to come. Con-
templating his muscular limb encased in a golf-stocking,
and under the strong impression of the information he had
just imparted I said wondering, rather irrationally:

"And so de Barral had a wife and child! That girl's
his daughter. And how- "

Fyne interrupted me by stating again earnestly, as
though it were something not easy to believe, that his
wife and himself had tried to befriend the girl in every
way indeed they had! I did not doubt him for a mo-
ment, of course, but my wonder at this was more rational.
At that hour of the morning, you mustn't forget, I knew
nothing as yet of Mrs. Fyne's contact (it was hardly
more) with de Barral's wife and child during their exile
at the Priory, in the culminating days of that man's fame.

Fyne who had come over, it was clear, solely to talk to
me on the subject, gave me the first hint of this initial,
merely out of doors, connection. "The girl was quite

94 CHANCE

a child then/ 5 he continued. "Later on she was removed
out of Mrs. Fyne's reach in charge of a governess a very
unsatisfactory person/' he explained. His wife had then

h'm met him; and on her marriage she lost sight of
the child completely. But after the birth of Polly (Polly
was the third Fyne girl) she did not get on very well
and wcrt to Brighton for some months to recover her
strength and there, one clay in the street, the child (she
wore her hair down her back still) recognized her outside
a shop and rushed, actually rushed, into Mrs. Fyne's
arms. Rather touching this. And so, disregarding the
cold impertinence of that . . . h'm . . . gover-
ness, his wife naturally responded.

He was solemnly fragmentary. I broke in with tho
observation that it must have been before the crash.

Fyne nodded with deepened gravity, stating in his
bass tone :

"Just before," and indulged himself with a weighty
period of solemn silence.

De Barral, he resumed suddenly, was not coming to
Brighton for week-ends regularly, then. Must have been
conscious already of the approaching disaster. *Mrs.
Fyne avoided being drawn into making his acquaintance,
and this suited the views of the governess person, very
jealous of any outside influence. But in any case it would
not have been an easy matter. Extraordinary, stiff
backed, thin figure all in black, the observed of all,while
walking hand -in-hand with the girl; apparently shy, but

and here Fyne came very near showing something like
insight probably nursing under a diffident manner a
considerable amount of secret arrogance. Mrs. Fyne
pitied Flora de Barral's fate long before the catastrophe.

THRIFT AND THE CHILD 95

Most unfortunate guidance. Very unsatisfactory sur-
roundings. The girl was known in the streets, was stared
at in public places as if she had been a sort of princess,
but she was kept with a very ominous consistency from
making any acquaintances though of course there were
many people no doubt who would have been more than
willing to h'm make themselves agreeable to Miss de
Barral. But this did not enter into the plans of the
governess, an intriguing person hatching a most sinister
plot under her severe air of distant fashionable exclusive-
ness. Good little Fyne's eyes bulged with solemn horror
as he revealed to me, in agitated speech, his wife's more
than suspicions, at the time, of that, Mrs. Mrs. What's
her name's perfidious conduct. She actually seemed to
have Mrs. Fyne asserted formed a plot already to
marry eventually her charge to an impecunious relation of
Pier own a young man with furtive eyes and something
impudent in his manner, whom that woman called her
nephew, and whom she was always having down to stay
with her.

44 And perhaps not her nephew. No relation at all,"
Fyne emitted with a convulsive effort this, the most
awful part of the suspicions Mrs. Fyne used to impart
to him piecemeal when he came down to spend his week-
ends gravely with her and the children. The Fynes, in
their good-natured concern for the unlucky child of the
man busied in stirring casually so many millions, spent
the moments of their weekly reunion in wondering earn-
estly what could be done to defeat the most wicked of con-
spiracies, trying to invent some tactful line of conduct
in such extraordinary circumstances. I could see them,
simple, and scrupulous, worrying honestly about that

96 CHANCE

unprotected big girl while looking at their own little girls
playing on the seashore. Fyne assured me that his wife's
rest was disturbed by the great problem of interference.

"It was very acute of Mrs. Fyne to spot such a deep
game," I said, wondering to myself where her acuteness
had gone to now, to let her be taken unawares by a game
so much simpler and played to the end under her very
nose. But then, at that time, when her nightly rest was
disturbed by the dread of the fate preparing f or 1 1 e Barral's
unprotected child, she was not engaged in writing a com-
pendious and ruthless hand-book on the theory and prac-
tice of life, for the use of women with a grievance. She
could as yet, before the task of evolving the philosophy
of rebellious action had affected her intuitive sharpness,
perceive things which were, I suspect, moderately plain.
For I am inclined to believe that the woman whom chance
had put in command of Flora de Barral's destiny took no
very subtle pains to conceal her game. She was conscious
of being a complete master of the situation, having once
for all established her ascendancy over de Barral. She
had taken all her measures against outside observation of
her conduct; and I could not help smiling at the thought
of what a ghastly nuisance the serious, innocent Fynes must
have been to her. How exasperated she must have been
by that couple falling into Brighton as completely unfore-
seen as a bolt from the blue if not so prompt. How
she must have hated them!

But I conclude she would have carried out whatever
plan she might have formed. I can imagine de Barral
accustomed for years to defer to her wishes and, either
through arrogance, or shyness, or simply because of his
unimaginative stupidity, remaining outside the social

THRIFT AND THE CHILD 97

pale, knowing no one but some card-playing cronies; I
can picture him to myself terrified at the prospect of
having the care of a marriageable girl thrust on his hands,
forcing on him a complete change of habits and the
necessity of another kind of existence which he would not
even have known how to begin. It is evident to me that
Mrs. What's her name would have had her atrocious way
with very little trouble even if the excellent Fynes had
been able to do something. She would simply have bul-
lied de Barral in a lofty style. There's nothing more
subservient than an arrogant man when his arrogance has
once been broken in some particular instance.

However, there was no time and no necessity for any
one to do anything. The situation itself vanished in the
financial crash as a building vanishes in an earthquake
here one moment and gone the next with only an ill-
omened, slight, preliminary rumble. Well, to say 'in a
moment' is an exaggeration perhaps; but that every-
thing was over in just twenty -four hours is an exact state-
ment. Fyrie was able to tell me all about it; and the
phrase that would depict the nature of the change best is:
an instant and complete destitution. I don't understand
these matters very well, but from Fyne's narrative it
seemed as if the creditors or the depositors, or the compe-
tent authorities, had got hold in the twinkling of an eye of
everything de Barral possessed in the world, down to his
watch and chain, the money in his trousers' pocket, his
spare suits of clothes, and I suppose the cameo pin out of
his black satin cravat. Everything! I believe he gave
up the very wedding ring of his late wife. The gloomy
Priory with its damp park and a couple of farms had been
made over to Mrs. de Barral; but when she died (without

93 CHANCE

making a will) it reverted to him, I imagine. They got
that of course; but it was a mere crumb in a Sahara of
starvation, a drop in the thirsty ocean. I dare say that
not a single soul in the world got the comfort of as much
as a recovered threepenny bit out of the estate. Then,
less than crumbs, less than drops, there were to be grabbed,
the lease of the big Brighton house, the furniture therein,
the carriage and pair, the girl's riding horse, her costly
trinkets; down to the heavily gold-mounted collar of her
pedigree St. Bernard. The dog, too, went: the most noble -
looking item in the beggarly assets.

What however went first of all or rather vanished was
nothing in the nature of an asset. It was that plotting
governess with the trick of a "perfect lady" manner
(severely conventional) and the soul of a remorseless
brigand. When a woman takes to any sort of unlawful
man-trade, there's nothing to beat her in the way of
thoroughness. It's true that you will find people who'll
tell you that this terrific virulence in breaking through
all established things, is altogether the fault of men.
Such people will ask you with a clever air why the servile
wars were always the most fierce, desperate, and atrocious
of all wars. And you may make such answer as you can
even the eminently feminine one, if you choose, so typi-
cal of the women's literal mind "I don't see what this has
to do with it!" How many arguments have been knocked
over (I won't say knocked down) by these few words! For
if we men try to put the spaciousness of all experiences into
our reasoning, and would fain put the Infinite itself into our
love, it isn't, as some writer has remarked, "It isn't women's
doing." Oh, no. They don't care for these things. That
sort of aspiration is not much in their way ; and it shall be a

THRIFT AND THE CHILD 99

funny world, the world of their arranging, where Ihe Irrele-
vant would fantastically step in to take the place of the
sober humdrum Imaginative. . . ."

I raised my hand to stop my friend Marlow.

"Do you really believe what you have said?" I asked,
meaning no offence, because with Marlow one never could
be sure.

"Only on certain days of the year," said Marlow readily,
with a malicious smile. "To-day I have been simply
trying to be spacious and I perceive I've managed to hurt
your susceptibilities which are consecrated to women.
When you sit alone and silent, you are defending in your
mind the poor women from attacks which cannot possibly
touch them. I wonder what can touch them? But to
soothe your uneasiness I will point out again that an Ir-
relevant world would be very amusing, if the women take
care to make it as charming as they alone can, by pre-
serving for us certain well-known, well-established, I would
almost say hackneyed, illusions, without which the average
male creature cannot get on. And that condition is very
important. For there is nothing more provoking than
the Irrelevant when it has ceased to amuse and charm; and
then the danger would be of the subjugated masculinity in
its exasperation, making some brusque, unguarded move-
ment and accidentally putting its elbow through the fine
tissue of the world of which I speak. And that would be
fatal to it. For nothing looks more irretrievably deplor-
able than fine tissue which has been damaged. The
women themselves would be the first to become disgusted
with their own creation.

There was something of women's highly practical sanity
and also of their irrelevancy in the conduct of Miss de

100 CHANCE

Hartal's amazing governess. It appeared from Fyne's
narrative that the day before the first rumble of the cata-
clysm the questionable young man arrived unexpectedly
in Brighton to stay with his "Aunt." To all outward
appearance everything was going on normally; the fellow
went out riding with the girl in the afternoon as he often
used to do a sight which never failed to fill Mrs. Fyne
with indignation. Fyne himself was down there with his
family for a whole week and was called to the window to
behold the iniquity in its progress and to share in his wife's
feelings. There was not even a groom with them. And
Mrs. Fyne's distress was so strong at this glimpse of the
unlucky girl, all unconscious of her danger, riding smilingly
by, that Fyne began to consider seriously whether it wasn't
their plain duty to interfere at all risks simply by writ-
ing a letter to de Barral. He said to his wife with a
solemnity I can easily imagine: "You ought to under-
take that task, my dear. You have known his wife after
all. That's something at any rate." On the other hand
the fear of exposing Mrs. Fyne to some nasty rebuff wor-
ried him exceedingly. Mrs. Fyne on her side gave way to
despondency. Success seemed impossible. Here was a
woman for more than five years in charge of the girl and
apparently enjoying the complete confidence of the father.
What, that would be effective, could one say, without
proofs, without . . . This Mr. de Barral must be,
Mrs. Fyne pronounced, either a very stupid or a down-
right bad man, to neglect his child so.

You will notice that perhaps because of Fy lie's solemn
view of our transient life and Mrs. Fyne's natural capacity
for responsibility, it had never occurred to them that the
simplest way out of the difficulty was to do nothing and

THRIFT AND THE CHILD 101

dismiss the matter as no concern of theirs. Which in a
strict worldly sense it certainly was not. But they spent,
Fyne told me, a most disturbed afternoon, considering the
ways and means of dealing with the danger hanging over
the head of the girl out for a ride (and no doubt enjoying
herself) with an abominable scamp.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE GOVERNESS

A~ ~D the best of it was that the danger was all over
already. There was no danger any more. The
supposed nephew's appearance had a purpose.
He had come, full, full to trembling with the bigness of
his news. There must have been rumours already as to
the shaky position of the de BarraPs concerns; but only
amongst those in the very inmost know. No rumour or
echo of rumour had reached the profane in the West End
let alone in the guileless marine suburb of Hove. The
Fyiies had no suspicion; the governess, playing with cold,
distinguished exclusiveness the part of mother to the fab-
ulously wealthy Miss de Barral, had no suspicion; the
masters of music, of drawing, of dancing to Miss de Barral
had no idea; the minds of her medical man, of her dentist,
of the servants in the house, of the tradesmen proud of
having the name of de Barral on their books, were in a
state of absolute serenity. Thus, that fellow, who had
unexpectedly received a most alarming straight tip from
somebody in the city arrived in Brighton, at about lunch-
time, with something very much in the nature of a deadly
bomb in his possession. But he knew better than to throw
it on the public pavement. He ate his lunch impenetrably,
sitting opposite Flora de Barral, and then closeted himself
with the woman whom little Fyne's charity described
(with a slight hesitation of speech) as his "Aunt."

102

THE GOVERNESS 103

What they said to each other in private we can imagine.
She came out of her own sitting-room with red spots on her
cheek-bones, which having provoked a question from her
"beloved" charge, were accounted for by a curt "I have a
headache coming on." But we may be certain that the
talk being over she must have said to that young black-
guard: "You had better take her out for a ride as usual."
We have proof positive of this in Fyne and Mrs. Fyne
observing them mount at the door and pass under the
windows of their sitting-room, talking together, and the
poor girl all smiles; because she enjoyed in all innocence
the company of Charley. She made no secret of it what-
ever to Mrs. Fyne; in fact, she had confided to her, long
before, that she liked him very much ; a confidence which
had filled Mrs. Fyne with desolation and that sense of
powerless anguish which is experienced in certain kinds of
nightmare. For how could she warn the girl? She did
venture to tell her once that she didn't like Mr. Charley.
Miss de Barral heard her with astonishment. How was
it possible not to like Charley? Afterward with naive
loyalty she told Mrs. Fyne that, immensely as she was
fond of her, she could not hear a word against Charley
the wonderful Charley.

The daughter of de Barral probably enjoyed her jolly
ride with the jolly Charley (infinitely more jolly than
going out with a stupid old riding-master) very much,
indeed, because the Fynes saw them coming back at a later
hour than usual. In fact it was getting nearly dark. On
dismounting, helped off by the delightful Charley, she pat-
ted the neck of her horse and went up the steps. Her last
ride. She was then within a few days of her sixteenth
birthday, a slight figure in a riding habit, rather shorte*

104 CHANCE

than the average height for her age, in a black bowler hat
from under which her fine rippling dark hair cut square at
the ends was hanging well down her back. The delightful
Charley mounted again to take the two horses round to the
mews. Mrs. Fyne remaining at the window saw the house
door close on Miss de Barral returning from her last ride.

And meantime what had the governess (out of a noble-
man's family) so judiciously selected (a lady, and con-
nected with well-known country people as she said) to
direct the studies, guard the health, form the mind, polish
the manners, and generally play the perfect mother to
that luckless child what had she been doing? Well,
having got rid of her charge by the most natural device
possible, which proved her practical sense, she started
packing her belongings, an act which showed her clear view
of the situation. She had worked methodically, rapidly,
and well, emptying the drawers, clearing the tables in her
special apartment of that big house, with something
silently passionate in her thoroughness; taking every-
thing belonging to her and some things of less unquestion-
able ownership, a jewelled penholder, an ivory and gold
paper knife (the house was full of common, costly objects),
some chased silver boxes presented by de Barral and other
trifles; but the photograph of Flora de Barral with the
loving inscription, which stood on her writing -desk, \of the
most modern and expensive style, in a silver-gilt f ramt3, she
neglected to take. Having accidentally, in the course
of the operations, knocked it off on the floor, she let it lie
there after a downward glance. Thus it, or the frame at
least, became, I suppose, part of the assets in the De Barral
bankruptcy.

At dinner that evening the child found her company

THE GOVERNESS 105

dull and brusque. It was uncommonly slow. She could
get nothing from her governess but monosyllables, and the
jolly Charley actually snubbed the various cheery open-
ings of his "little churn" as he used to call her at times
but not at that time. No doubt the couple were ner-
vous and preoccupied. For all this we have evidence, and
for the fact that Flora being offended with the delightful
nephew of her profoundly respected governess sulked
through the rest of the evening and was glad to retire
early. Mrs. Mrs. I've really forgotten her name the
governess, invited her nephew to her sitting-room, men-
tioning aloud that it was to talk over some family matters.
This was meant for Flora to hear, and she heard it
without the slightest interest. In fact there was nothing
sufficiently unusual in such an invitation to arouse in her
mind even a passing wonder. She went bored to bed,
and being tired with her long ride slept soundly all night.
Her last sleep, I won't say of innocence that word
would not render my exact meaning, because it has a special
meaning of its own but I will say: of that ignorance, or
better still, of that unconsciousness of the world's ways,
the unconsciousness of danger, of pain, of humiliation, of
bitterness, of falsehood. An unconsciousness which in
the case of other beings like herself is removed by a gradual
process of experience and information, often only partial
at that, with saving reserves, softening doubts, veiling
theories. Her unconsciousness of the evil which lives in
the secret thoughts and therefore in the open acts of
mankind, whenever it happens that evil thought meets
evil courage; her unconsciousness was to be broken into
willi profane violence, with desecrating circumstances, like
a temple violated by a mad, vengeful impiety. Yes, that

106 CHANCE

very young girl, almost no more than a child this was
what was going to happen to her. And if you ask me,
how, wherefore, for what reason? I will answer you:
Why, by chance! By the merest chance, as things do
happen, lucky and unlucky, terrible or tender, important
or unimportant; and even things which are neither,
things so completely neutral in character that you would
wonder why they do happen at all if you didn't know that
they, too, carry in their insignificance the seeds of further
incalculable chances.

Of course, all the chances were that de Barral should
have fallen upon a perfectly harmless, naive, usual, ineffi-
cient specimen of respectable governess for his daughter;
or on a commonplace silly adventuress who would have
tried, say, to marry him or work some other sort of common
mischief in a small way. Or again he might have chanced
on a model of all the virtues, or the repository of all knowl-
edge, or anything equally harmless, conventional, and
middle class. All calculations were in his favour; but,
chance being incalculable, he fell upon an individuality
whom it is much easier to define by opprobrious names
than to classify in a calm and scientific spirit but an
individuality certainly, and a temperainen t as well. Rare ?
No. There is a certain amount of what I would politely
call unscrupulousness in all of us. Think for instance of
the excellent Mrs. Fyne, who herself, and in the bosom of
her family, resembled a governess of a conventional type.
Only her mental excesses were theoretical, hedged in by
so much humane feeling and conventional reserves that
they amounted to no more than mere libertinage of
thought; whereas, the other woman, the governess of Flora
de Barral, was, as you may have noticed, severely practi-

THE GOVERNESS 107

cal terribly practical. No! Hers was not a rare tem-
perament, except in its fierce resentment of repression; a
feeling which like genius or lunacy is apt to drive people
into sudden irrelevancy. Hers was feminine irrelevancy.
A male genius, a male ruffian, or even a male lunatic,
would not have behaved exactly as she did behave. There
is a softness in masculine nature, even the most brutal,
which acts as a check.

While the girl slept, those two, the woman of forty, an
age in itself terrible, and that hopeless young "wrong J un"
of twenty -three (also well connected I believe) , had some
sort of subdued row in the cleared rooms: wardrobes
open, drawers half pulled out and empty, trunks locked
and strapped, furniture in idle disarray, and not so much
as a single scrap of paper left behind on the tables. The
maid, whom the governess and the pupil shared between
them, after finishing with Flora, came to the door as
usual, but was not admitted. She heard the two voices
in dispute before she knocked, and then being sent away
retreated at once the only person in the house con-
vinced at that time that there was "something up."

Dark, and so to speak, inscrutable spaces being met
with in life, there must be such places in any statement
dealing with life. In what I am telling you of now an
episode of one of my humdrum holidays in the green
country, recalled quite naturally after all the years by
our meeting a man who has been a blue-water sailor
this evening confabulation is a dark, inscrutable spot.
And we may conjecture what we like. I have no difficulty
in imagining that the woman of forty, and the chief of
the enterprise must have raged at large. And perhaps
the other did not rage enough. Youth feels deeply, it is

108 CHANCE

true, but it has not the same vivid sense of lost opportuni-
ties. It believes in the absolute reality of time. And
then, in that abominable scamp with his youth already
soiled, withered like a plucked flower ready to be flung on
some rotting heap of rubbish, no very genuine feeling
about anything could exist not even the hazards of his
own unclean existence. A sneering half-laugh with some
such remark as: "We are properly sold and no mistake,"
would have been enough to make trouble in that way.
And then another sneer, "Waste time enough over it too,"
followed perhaps by the bitter retort from the other party,
"You seemed to like it well enough though, playing the
fool with that chit of a girl." Something of that sort.
Don't you see it eh? . . ."

Marlow looked at me with his dark penetrating glance.
I was struck by the absolute verisimilitude of this sugges-
tion. But we were always tilting at each other. I saw
an opening and pushed my uncandid thrust.

"You have a ghastly imagination," I said with a cheer-
fully sceptical smile.

"Well, and if I have," he returned unabashed. "But
let me remind you that this situation came to me unasked.
I am like the puzzled-headed chief -mate we had once in the
dear old Samarcand when I was a youngster. The fellow
went gravely about trying to * account to himself' his
favourite expression for a lot of things no one would
care to bother one's head about. He was an old idiot, but
he was also an accomplished practical seaman. I was
quite a boy and he impressed me. I must have caught
the disposition from him."

"Well go on with your accounting then," I said,
assuming an air of resignation.

THE GOVERNESS 109

" That's just it." Marlow fell into his stride at once.
" That's just it. Mere disappointed cupidity cannot
account for the proceedings of the next morning; pro-
ceedings which I shall not describe to you but which
I shall tell you of presently, not as a matter of conjecture
but of actual fact. Meantime returning to that evening
altercation in deadened tones within the private apart-
ment of Miss de Barral's governess, what if I were to tell
you that disappointment had most likely made them
touchy with each other, but that perhaps the secret of
his careless, railing behaviour was in the thought, spring-
ing up within him with an emphatic oath of relief, 'Now
there's nothing to prevent me from breaking away from
that old woman.' And that the secret of her envenomed
rage, not against this miserable and attractive wretch,
but against fate, accident and the whole course of human
life, concentrating its venom on de Barral and including
the innocent girl herself, was in the thought, in the fear
crying within her, 'Now I have nothing to hold him
with. . . . >

I couldn't refuse Marlow the tribute of a prolonged
whistle "Phew! So you suppose that- "

He waved his hand impatiently.

"I don't suppose. It was so. And anyhow, why
shouldn't you accept the supposition. Do you look upon
governesses as creatures above suspicion or necessarily
of moral perfection? I suppose their hearts would not
stand looking into much better than other people's. Why
shouldn't a governess have passions, all the passions,
even that of libertine ge, and even ungovernable passions;
yet suppressed by the very same means which keep the
rest of us in order: early training necessity circum*

110 CHANCE

stances fear of consequences; till there comes an age 9
a time when the restraint of years becomes intolerable
and infatuation irresistible . . .

"But if infatuation quite possible I admit," I argued,
"how do you account for the nature of the conspiracy."

"You expect a cogency of conduct not usual in women,"
said Marlow. "The subterfuges of a menaced passion
are not to be fathomed. You think it is going on the way
it looks, whereas it is capable, for its own ends, of walking
backward into a precipice.

When one once acknowledges that she was not a com-
mon woman, then all this is easily understood. She was
abominable but she was not common. She had suffered
in her life not from its constant inferiority but from con-
stant self -repression. A common woman finding herself
placed in a commanding position might have formed the
design to become the second Mrs. de Barral. Which
would have been impracticable. De Barral would not
have known what to do with a wife. But even if by some
impossible chance he had made advances, this governess
would have repulsed him with scorn. She had treated
him always as an inferior being with an assured, distant
politeness. In her composed, schooled manner she de-
spised and disliked both father and daughter exceedingly.
I have a notion that she had always disliked intensely all
her charges, including the two ducal (if they were ducal)
little girls with whom she had dazzled de Barral. What
an odious, ungratified existence it must have been for a
woman as avid of all the sensuous emotions which life can
give as most of her betters.

She had seen her youth vanish, her freshness disappear,
her hopes die, and now she felt her flaming middle-age

THE GOVERNESS ill

slipping away from her. No wonder that with her ad-
mirably dressed, abundant hair, thickly sprinkled with
white threads and adding to her elegant aspect the piquant
distinction of a powdered coiffure no wonder, I say,
that she clung desperately to her last infatuation for that
graceless young scamp, even to the extent of hatching for
him that amazing plot. He was not so far gone in degra-
dation as to make him utterly hopeless for such an at-
tempt. She hoped to keep him straight with that
enormous bribe. She was clearly a woman uncommon
enough to live without illusions which, of course, does
not mean that she was reasonable. She had said to her-
self, perhaps with a fury of self -contempt, "In a few years
I shall be too old for anybody. Meantime I shall have
him and I shall hold him by throwing to him the money
of that ordinary, silly, little girl of no account." Well, it
was a desperate expedient but she thought it worth
while. And besides there is hardly a woman in the world,
no matter how hard, depraved or frantic, in whom some-
thing of the maternal instinct does notsurvive,unconsumed
like a salamander, in the fires of the most abandoned
passion. Yes, there might have been that sentiment
for him, too. There was, no doubt. So I say again: No
wonder! No wonder that she raged at everything and
perhaps even at him, with contradictory reproaches; for
regretting the girl, a little fool who would never in her life
be worth anybody's attention, and for taking the disaster
itself with a cynical levity in which she perceived a flavour
of revolt.

And so the altercation in the night went on, over the
irremediable. He, arguing, "What's the hurry? Why
clear out like this?" Perhaps a little sorry for the girl,

112 CHANCE

and as usual without a penny in his pocket, appreciating
the comfortable quarters, wishing to linger on as long as
possible in the shameless enjoyment of his already
doomed luxury. There was really no hurry for a few days.
Always time enough to vanish. And, with that, a touch
of masculine softness, a sort of regard for appearances
surviving his degradation: "You might behave decently
at the last, Eliza." But there was no softness in the
sallow face under the gala effect of powdered hair, its for-
mal calmness gone, the dark-ringed eyes glaring at him
with a sort of hunger. "No! No! If it is as you say
then not a day, not an hour, not a moment." She stuck
to it, very determined that there should be no more of that
boy and girl philandering since the object of it was gone;
angry with herself for having suffered from it so much in
the past, furious at its having been all in vain.

But she was reasonable enough not to quarrel with him
finally. What was the good? She found means to pla-
cate him. The only means. As long as there was some
money to be got she had hold of him. "Now go awa<y.
We shall do no good by any more of this sort of talk. I
want to be alone for a bit." He went away, sulkily
acquiescent. There was a room always kept ready for
him on the same floor, at the further end of a short, thickly
carpeted passage.

How she passed the night, this woman with no illusions
to help her through the hours which must have been sleep-
less I shouldn't like to say. It ended at last; and this
strange victim of the de Barral failure, whose name would
never be known to the Official Receiver, came down
to breakfast, impenetrable in her everyday perfection.
From the very first, somehow, she had accepted the fatal

THE GOVERNESS 118

news for true. All her life she had never believed in her
luck, with that pessimism of the passionate who at bottom
feel themselves to be the outcasts of a morally restrained
universe. But this did not make it any easier, on opening
the morning paper feverishly, to see the thing confirmed.
Oh, yes ! It was there. The Orb had suspended payment
the first growl of the storm faint as yet, but to the
initiated the forerunner of a deluge. As an item of news
it was not indecently displayed. It was not displayed at
all in a sense. The serious paper, the only one of the great
dailies which had always maintained an attitude of reserve
toward the De Barral group of banks, had its "manner."
Yes! a modest item of news! But there was also, on
another page, a special financial article in a hostile tone
beginning with the words, "We have always feared/' and
a guarded, half -column leader, opening with the phrase:
"It is a deplorable sign of the times," what was, in effect,
an austere, general rebuke to the absurd infatuations of
the investing public. She glanced through these articles,
a line here and a line there no more was necessary to
catch beyond doubt the murmur of the oncoming flood.
Several slighting references by name to de Barral revived
her animosity against the man, suddenly, as by the effect
of unforeseen moral support. "The miserable wretch!"

"You understand," Marlow interrupted the current
of his narrative, "that in order to be consecutive in my
relation of this affair I am telling you at once the details
which I heard from Mrs. Fyne later in the day, as well as
what little Fyne imparted to me with his usual solemnity
during that morning call. As you may easily guess the
Fynes, in their apartments, had read the news at the same

114 CHANCE

time, and, as a matter of fact, in the same august and
highly moral newspaper as the governess in the luxurious
mansion a few doors down on the opposite side of the
street. But they read them with different feelings. They
were thunderstruck. Fyne had to explain the full purport
of the intelligence to Mrs. Fyne whose first cry was that
of relief. Then that poor child would be safe from these
designing, horrid people. Mrs. Fyne did not know what
it might mean to be suddenly reduced from riches to
absolute penury. Fyne with his masculine imagination
was less inclined to rejoice extravagantly at the girl's
escape from the moral dangers which had been menacing
her defenceless existence. It was a confoundedly big
price to pay. What an unfortunate little thing she was!
"We might be able to do something to comfort that poor
child at any rate for the time she is here," said Mrs. Fyne.
She felt under a sort of moral obligation not to be indiffer-
ent. But no comfort for any one could be got by rushing
out into the street at this early hour; and so, following the
advice of Fyne not to act hastily, they both sat down at
the window and stared feelingly at the great house, awful
to their eyes in its stolid, prosperous, expensive respecta-
bility, with ruin absolutely standing at the door.

By that time, or very soon after, all Brighton had the
information and formed a more or less just appreciation of
its gravity. The butler in Miss de Barral's big house
had seen the news, perhaps earlier than anybody within
a mile of the Parade, in the course of his morning duties
of which one was to dry the freshly delivered paper before
the fire an occasion to glance at it which 110 intelligent
man could have neglected. He communicated to the rest
of the household his vaguely forcible impression that

THE GOVERNESS 115

something had gone damnably wrong with the affairs
of "her father in London. "

This brought an atmosphere of constraint through the
house, which Flora de Barral coming down somewhat later
than usual could not help noticing in her own way. Every-
body seemed to stare so stupidly somehow; she feared
a dull day.

In the dining-room the governess in her place, a news-
paper half-concealed under the cloth on her lap, after a
few words exchanged with lips that seemed hardly to move,
remaining motionless, her eyes fixed before her in an
enduring silence; and presently Charley coming in to
whom she did not even give a glance. He hardly said
good morning, though he had a half-hearted try to smile
at the girl, and sitting opposite her with his eyes on his plate
and slight quivers passing along the line of his clean-shaven
jaw, he, too, had nothing to say. It was dull, horribly dull,
to begin one's day like this; but she knew what it was.
These never-ending family affairs! It was not for the
first time that she had suffered from their depressing after-
effects on these two. It was a shame that the .delightful
Charley should be made dull by these stupid talks, and it
was perfectly stupid of him to let himself be upset like this
by his aunt.

When after a period of still, as if calculating, immobility,
her governess got up abruptly and went out with the paper
in her hand, almost immediately afterward followed by
Charley who left his breakfast half eaten, the girl was
positively relieved. They would have it out that morning,
whatever it was, and be themselves again in the afternoon.
At least Charley would be. To the moods of her gover*
ness she did not attach so much importance.

116 CHANCE

For the first time that morning the Fynes saw the front
door of the awful house open and the objectionable young
man issue forth, his rascality visible to their prejudiced
eyes in his very bowler hat and in the smart cut of his
short fawn overcoat. He walked away rapidly like a man
hurrying to catch a train, glancing from side to side as
though he were carrying something off. Could he be
departing for good? Undoubtedly, undoubtedly! But
Mrs. Fyne's fervent "thank goodness" turned out to be a
bit, as the Americans some Americans say "previ-
ous." In a very short time the odious fellow appeared
again, strolling, absolutely strolling back, his hat now
tilted a little on one side, with an air of leisure and satis-
faction. Mrs. Fyne groaned not only in the spirit, at the
sight, but in the flesh, audibly; and asked her husband
what it might mean, Fyne naturally couldn't say. Mrs.
Fyne believed that there was something horrid in progress
and, meantime, the object of her detestation had gone up
the steps and had knocked at the door which at once
opened to admit him.

He had been only as far as the bank.

His reason for leaving his breakfast unfinished to run
after Miss de BarraPs governess, was to speak to her in
reference to that very errand possessing the utmost
possible importance in his eyes. He shrugged his should-
ers at the nervousness of her eyes and hands, at the
half -strangled whisper "I had to go out. I could hardly
contain myself.'* That was her affair. He was, with a
young man's squeamishness, rather sick of her ferocity.
He did not understand it. Men do not accumulate hate
against each other in tiny amounts, treasuring every pinch
carefully till it grows at last into a monstrous and explosive

THE GOVERNESS 117

hoard. He had run out after her to remind her of the
balance at the bank. What about lifting that money
without wasting any more time? She had promised him
to leave nothing behind.

An account opened in her name for the expenses of the
establishment in Brighton, had been fed by de Barral with
deferential lavishness. The governess crossed the wide
hall into a little room at the side where she sat] down to
write the cheque, which he hastened out to go and cash as
if it were stolen or a forgery. As observed hy the Fynes,
his uneasy appearance on leaving the house, arose from
the fact that his first trouble having been caused by a
cheque of doubtful authenticity, the possession of a
document of the sort made him unreasonably uncomfort-
able till this one was safely cashed. And, after all, you
know it was stealing of an indirect sort; for the money was
de BarraPs money if the account was in the name of the
accomplished lady. At any rate the cheque was cashed*
On getting hold of the notes and gold he recovered his
jaunty bearing, it being well known that with certain na-
tures the presence of money (even stolen) in the pocket,
acts as a tonic, or at least as a stimulant. He cocked his
hat a little on one side as though he had had a drink or two
which indeed he might have had in reality, to celebrate
the occasion.

The governess had been waiting for his return in the hall,
disregarding the side-glances of the butler as he went in
and out of the dining-room clearing away the breakfast
things. It was she, herself, who had opened the door so
promptly. "It's all right," he said touching his breast-
pocket; and she did not dare, the miserable WTetch with-
out illusions, she did not dare ask him to hand it over.

118 CHANCE

They looked at each other in silence. He nodded signifi-
cantly: "Where is she now?" and she whispered, "Gone
into the drawing-room. Want to see her again?" with
an archly black look which he acknowledged by a muttered
surly: * C I am d d if I do. Well, as you want to bolt
like this, why don't we go now?"

She set her lips with cruel obstinacy and shook her head.
She had her idea, her completed plan. At that moment
the Fynes, still at the window and watching like a pair
of private detectives, saw a man with a long gray beard
and a jovial face go up the steps helping himself with a
thick stick, and knock at the door. Who could he be?

He was one of Miss de Barrel's masters. She had lately
taken up painting in water-colours, having read in a high-
class, woman's weekly paper that a great many princesses
of the European royal houses were cultivating that art.
This was the water-colour morning; and the teacher,
a veteran of many exhibitions, of a venerable and jovial
aspect, had turned up with his usual punctuality* He
was no great reader of morning papers, arid even had he
seen the news it is very likely he would not ha^e under-
stood its real purport. At any rate he turned up, as the
governess expected him to do, and the Fynes saw him pass
through the fateful door.

He bowed cordially to the lady in charge of Miss de
Barrel's education, whom he saw in the hall engaged in
conversation with a very good-looking but somewhat
raffish young gentleman. She turned to him graciously:
"Flora is already waiting for you in the drawing-room."

The cultivation of the art said to be patronized by
princesses was pursued in the drawing-room from con-
siderations of the right kind of light. The governess

THE GOVERNESS

preceded the master up the stairs and into the room where
Miss de Barral was found arrayed in a holland pinafore
(also of the right kind for the pursuit of the art) and smil-
ingly expectant. The water-colour lesson enlivened by
the jocular conversation of the kindly, humorous, old man
was always great fun; and she felt she would be compen-
sated for the tiresome beginning of the day.

Her governess generally was present at the lesson;
but on this occasion she only sat clown till the master and
pupil had gone to work in earnest, and then as though she
had suddenly remembered some order to give, rose quietly
and went out of the room.

Once outside, the servants summoned by the passing
maid without a bell being rung, and quick, quick, let all
this luggage be taken down into the hall, and let one of you
call a cab. She stood outside the drawing-room door on
the landing, looking at each piece, trunk, leather cases,
portmanteaus, being carried past her, her brows knitted
and her aspect so sombre and absorbed that it took some
little time for the butler to muster courage enough to
speak to her. But he reflected that he was a free-born
Briton and had his rights. He spoke straight to the point
but in the usual respectful manner.

"Beg your pardon, ma'am but are you going away for
good?"

He was startled by her tone. Its unexpected, unlady-
like harshness fell on his trained ear with the disagreeable
effect of a false note. "Yes. I am going away. And the
best thing for all of you is to go away, too, as soon as you
like. You can go now, to-day, this moment. You had
your wages paid you only last week. The longer you stay
greater your loss. But I have nothing to do with it

120 CHANCE

now. You are the servants of Mr. de Barral you know."
The butler was astounded by the manner of this advice,
and as his eyes wandered to the drawing-room door the
governess extended her arm as if to bur the way. "No-
body goes in there." And that was said still in another
tone, such a tone that all trace of the trained respectfulness
vanished from the butler's bearing. He stared at her with
a frank wondering gaze. "Not till I am gone," she added,
and there was such an expression on her face that the man
was daunted by the mystery of it. He shrugged his
shoulders slightly and without another word went down
the stairs on his way to the basement, brushing in the hall
past Mr. Charles, who, hat on head and both hands rammed
deep into his overcoat pockets, paced up and down as
though on sentry duty there.

The ladies' maid was the only servant upstairs, hovering
in the passage on the first floor, curious, and as if fascin-
ated by the woman who stood there guarding the door.
Being beckoned closer imperiously and asked by the gov-
erness to bring out of the now empty rooms the hat and
veil, the only objects besides the furniture still to be found
there, she did so in silence but inwardly fluttered. And
while waiting uneasily, with the veil, before that woman,
who, without moving a step away from the drawing-room
door, was pinning with careless haste her hat on her head,
she heard within a sudden burst of laughter from Miss de
Barral enjoying the fun of the water-colour lesson given
her for the last time by the cheery old man.

Mr. and Mrs. Fyne ambushed at their window a most
incredible occupation for people of their kind saw with
renewed anxiety a cab come to the door, and watched some
luggage being carried out and put on its roof. The butlei

THE GOVERNESS 121

appeared for a moment, then went in again. What did it
mean? Was Flora going to be taken to her father, or
were these people, that woman and her horrible nephew,
about to carry her off somewhere? Fyne couldn't tell.
He doubted the last, Flora having now, he judged, no value
either positive or speculative. Though no great reader of
character he did not credit the governess with humane
intentions. He confessed to me naively that he was ex-
cited as if watching some action on the stage. Then the
thought struck him that the girl might have had some
money settled on her, be possessed of some means, of some
little fortune of her own, and therefore

He imparted this theory to his wife who shared fully his
consternation. "I can't believe the child will go away
without mnning in to say good-bye to us,'* she murmured.
" We must find out! I shall ask her." But at that very
moment the cab rolled away, empty inside, and the door of
the house which had been standing slightly ajar till then
was pushed to.

They remained silent staring at it till Mrs. Fyne whis-
pered doubtfully, "I really think I must go over." Fyne
didn't answer for a while (his is a reflective mind, you
know), and then as if Mrs. Fyne's whispers had an occult
power over that door it opened wide again and the white-
bearded man issued, astonishingly active in his movements,
using his stick almost like a leaping-pole to get down the
steps, and hobbled away briskly along the pavement. Nat-
urally the Fynes were too far off to make out the expres-
sion of his face. But it would not have helped them very
much to a guess at the conditions inside the house. The
expression was humorously puzzled nothing more.

For, at the end of his lesson, seizing his trusty stick and

122 CHANCE

issuing out with his habitual vivacity, he very nearly can-
noned just outside the drawing-room door into the back of
Miss de Barral's governess. He stopped himself in time
and she turned round swiftly. It was embarrassing; he
apologized ; but her face was not startled ; it was not aware
of him; it wore a singular expression of resolution. A very
singular expression which, as it were, detained him for a
moment. In order to cover his embarrassment, he made
some inane remark on the weather, upon which, instead of
returning another inane remark according to the tacit rules
of the game, she only gave him a smile of unfathomable
meaning. Nothing could have been more singular. The
good-looking young gentleman of questionable appearance
took not the slightest notice of him in the hall. No ser-
vant was to be seen. He let himself out pulling the door to
behind him with a crash as, in a manner, he was forced to
do to get it shut at all.

When the echo of it had died away the woman on the
landing leaned over the banister and called out bitterly to
the man below, "Don't you want to come up and say
good-bye?" He had an impatient movement of the
shoulders and went on pacing to and fro as though he had
not heard. But suddenly he checked himself, stood still
for a moment, then with a gloomy face and without taking
his hands out of his pockets ran smartly up the stairs.
Already facing the door she turned her head for a whis-
pered taunt: "Come! Confess you were dying to see her
stupid little face once more?" to which he disdained to
answer.

Flora de Barral, still seated before the table at which she
had been working on her sketch, raised her head at the
noise of the opening door. The invading manner of their

THE GOVERNESS 123

entrance gave her the sense of something she had never
seen before. She knew them well. She knew the woman
better than she knew her father. There had been be-
tween them an intimacy of relation as great as it can
possibly be without the final closeness of affection. The
delightful Charley walked in, with his eyes fixed on the
back of her governess whose raised veil hid her forehead
like a brown band above the black line of the eyebrows.
The girl was astounded and alarmed by the altogether
unknown expression in the woman's face. The stress of
passion often discloses an aspect of the personality com-
pletely ignored till then by its closest intimates. There
was something like an emanation of evil from her eyes and
from the face of the other, who, exactly behind her and
overtopping her by half a head, kept his eyelids lowered in
a sinister fashion which in the poor girl, reached, stirred,
set free that faculty of unreasoning explosive terror lying
locked up at the bottom of all human hearts and of the
hearts of animals as well. With suddenly enlarged pupils
and a movement as instinctive almost as the bounding of
a startled fawn, she jumped up and found herself in the
middle of the big room, exclaiming at those amazing" and
familiar strangers.

"What do you want?"

You will note that she cried: What do you want? Not:
What has happened? She told Mrs. Fyne that she had
received suddenly the feeling of being personally attacked.
And that must have been very terrifying. The woman
before her had been the wisdom, the authority, the protec-
tion of life, security embodied and visible and undisputed.

You may imagine then the force of the shock in the
intuitive perception not merely of danger, for she did not

124 CHANCE

know what was alarming her, but in the sense of the se*
curity being gone. And not only security. I don't
know how to explain it clearly. Look! Even a small
child lives, plays, and suffers in terms of its conception of
its own existence. Imagine, if you can, a fact coming in
suddenly with a force capable of shattering that very
conception itself. It was only because of the girl being
still so much of a child that she escaped mental destruc-
tion; that, in other words, she got over it. Could one
conceive of her more mature, while still as ignorant as she
was, one must conclude that she would have become an
idiot on the spot long before the end of that experience.
Luckily, people, whether mature or not mature (and who
really is ever mature?) are for the most part quite incap-
able of understanding what is happening to them : a merci-
ful provision of nature to preserve an average amount of
sanity for working purposes in this world. . . ."

"But we, my dear Marlow, have the inestimable advan-
tage of understanding what is happening to others," I
struck in. " Or at least some of us seem to. Is that, too, a
provision of nature? And what is it for? Is it that we
may amuse ourselves gossiping about each other's affairs?
You for instance seem "

"I don't know what I seem," Marlow silenced me,
"and surely life must be amused somehow. It would be
still a very respectable provision if it were only for that
end. But from that same provision of understanding,
there springs in us compassion, charity, indignation, the
sense of solidarity; and in minds of any largeness an incli-
nation to that indulgence which is next door to affection. I
don't mean to say that I am inclined to an indulgent view
of the precious couple which broke in upon an unsuspecting

THE GOVERNESS 125

girl. They came marching in (it's the very expression she
used later on to Mrs. Fyne) but at her cry they stopped.
It must have been startling enough to them. It was like
having the mask torn off when you don't expect it. The
man stopped for good; he didn't offer to move a step
further. But, though the governess had come in there
for the very purpose of taking the mask off for the first
time in her life, she seemed to look upon the frightened cry
as a fresh provocation. "What are you screaming for,
you little fool?" she said advancing alone close to the girl
who was affected exactly as if she had seen Medusa's head
with serpentine locks set mysteriously on the shoulders
of that familiar person, in that brown dress, under that
hat she knew so well. It made her lose all her hold on
reality. She told Mrs. Fyne: "I didn't know where I
was. I didn't even know that I was frightened. If she
had told me it was a joke I would have laughed. If
she had told me to put on my hat and go out with her I
would have gone to put on my hat and gone out with her
and never said a single word; I should have been con-
vinced I had been mad for a minute or so, and I would
have worried myself to death rather than breathe a hint of
it to her or any one. But the wretch put her face close to
mine and I could not move. Directly I had looked into
her eyes I felt grown on to the carpet."

It was years afterward that she used to talk like this
to Mrs. Fyne and to Mrs. Fyne alone. Nobody else
ever heard the story from her lips. But it was never
forgotten. It was always felt; it remained like a mark on
her soul, a sort of mystic wound, to be contemplated, to be
meditated over. And she said further to Mrs. Fyne, in
the course of many confidences provoked by that con-

126 CHANCE

templation, that, as long as that woman called her names,
it was almost soothing, it was in a manner reassuring.
Her imagination had, like her body, gone off in a wild
bound to meet the unknown; and then to hear after all
something which more in its tone than in its substance was
mere venomous abuse, had steadied the inward flutter of
all her being.

"She called me a little fool more times than I can
remember. I! A fool! Why, Mrs. Fyne! I do assure
you I had never yet thought at all; never of anything in
the world, till then. I just went on living. And one can't
be a fool without one has at least tried to think. But
w r hat had I ever to think about?"

"And no doubt," commented Marlow, "her life had
been a mere life of sensations the response to which can
be neither foolish nor wise. It can only be temperamental,
and I believe that she was of a generally happy disposition,
a child of the average kind. Even when she was asked
violently whether she imagined that there was anything
in her, apart from her money, to induce any intelligent
person to take any sort of interest in her existence, she
only caught her breath in one dry sob and said nothing,
made no other sound, made no movement. When she was
viciously assured that she was in heart, mind, manner, and
appearance, an utterly common and insipid creature, she
remained still, without indignation, without anger. She
stood, a frail and passive vessel into which the other went
on pouring all the accumulated dislike for all her pupils,
her scorn of all her employers (the ducal one included),
the accumulated resentment, the infinite hatred of all
these unrelieved years of I won't say hypocrisy. The
practice of perfect hypocrisy is a relief in itself, a secret

THE GOVERNESS 127

triumph of the vilest sort, no doubt, but still a way of get-
ting even with the common morality from which some of
us appear to suffer so much. No! I will say the years,
the passionate, bitter years, of restraint, the iron, admira-
bly mannered restraint at every moment, in a never-
failing perfect correctness of speech, glances, movements,
smiles, gestures, establishing for her a high reputation, an
impressive record of success in her sphere. It had been
like living half strangled for years.

And all this torture for nothing, in the end! What
looked at last like a possible prize (oh, without illusions!
but still a prize) broken in her hands, fallen in the dust,
the bitter dust, of disappointment, she revelled in the
miserable revenge pretty safe too only regretting the
unworthiness of the girlish figure which stood for so much
she had longed to be able to spit venom at, if only once,
in perfect liberty. The presence of the young man at her
back increased both her satisfaction and her rage. But
the very violence of the attack seemed to defeat its end by
rendering the representative victim, as it were, insensible.
The cause of this outrage naturally escaping the girl's
imagination her attitude was in effect that of dense, hope-
less stupidity. And it is a fact that the worst shocks of
life are often received without outcries, without gestures,
without a flow of tears and the convulsions of sobbing.
The insatiable governess missed these signs exceedingly.
This pitiful stolidity was only a fresh provocation. Yet
the poor girl was deadly pale.

"I was cold,' 5 she used to explain to Mrs. Fyne. "I had
had time to get terrified. She had pushed her face so
near mine and her teeth looked as though she wanted
to bite me. Her eye 5 ? seemed to have become quite dry,

128 CHANCE

hard, and small in a lot of horrible wrinkles. I was too
afraid of her to shudder, too afraid of her to put my
fingers to my ears. I didn't know what I expected her to
call me next, but when she told me I was no better than a
beggar that there would be no more masters, no more
servants, no more horses for me I said to myself : Is
that all? I should have laughed if I hadn't been too
afraid of her to make the least little sound. 55

It seemed that poor Flora had to know all the possible
phases of that sort of anguish, beginning with instinctive
panic, through the bewildered stage, the frozen stage, and
the stage of blanched apprehension, down to the instinc-
tive prudence of extreme terror the stillness of the
mouse. But when she heard herself called the child of a
cheat and a swindler, the very monstrous unexpectedness
of this caused in her a revulsion toward letting herself go.
She screamed out all at once, "You mustn't speak like
this of papa!"

The effort of it uprooted her from that spot where her
little feet seemed dug deep into the thick luxurious carpet,
and she retreated backward to a distant part of the room,
hearing herself repeat, "You mustn't, you mustn't," as if
it were somebody else screaming. She came to a chair
and flung herself into it. Thereupon the somebody else
ceased screaming and she lolled, exhausted, sightless, in a
silent room, as if indifferent to everything, and without a
single thought in her head.

The next few seconds seemed to last for ever so long;
a black abyss of time separating what was past and gone
from the reappearance of the governess and the reawaken-
ing of fear. And that woman was forcing the words
through her set teeth: "You say I mustn't, I mustn't,

THE GOVERNESS 129

All the world will be speaking of him like this to-morrow,
They will say it, and they'll print it. You shall hear it
and you shall read it and then you shall know whose
daughter you are."

Her face lighted up with an atrocious satisfaction.
"He's nothing but a thief," she cried, "this father of yours.
As to you I have never been deceived in you for a moment.
I have been growing more and more sick of you for years.
You are a vulgar, silly nonentity, and you shall go back to
where you belong, whatever low place you have sprung
from, and beg your bread that is if anybody's charity
have anything to do with you, which I doubt

She would have gone on regardless of the enormous
eyes, of the open mouth of the girl who sat up suddenly
with the wild, staring expression of being choked by invisi-
ble fingers on her throat, and yet horribly pale. The
effect on her constitution was so profound, Mrs. Fyne told
me, that she, who as a child had a rather pretty, delicate
colouring, showed a white, bloodless face for a couple of
years afterward, and remained always liable at the slight-
est emotion to an extraordinary ghost-like whiteness. The
end came in the abomination of desolation of the poor
child's miserable cry for help: "Charley! Charley!"
coming from her throat in hidden gasping . efforts. Her
enlarged eyes had discovered him where he stood motion-
less and dumb.

He started from his immobility, a hand withdrawn
brusquely from the pocket of his overcoat, strode up to
the woman, seized her by the arm from behind, saying in a
rough, commanding tone: "Come away, Eliza!" In an
instant the child saw them close together, and remote, near
the door, gone through the door, which she neither heard

ISO CHANCE

nor saw, being opened or shut. But it was shut. Oh,
yes, it was shut. Her slow, unseeing glance wandered all
over the room. For some time longer she remained lean-
ing forward, collecting her strength, doubting if she would
be able to stand. She stood up at last. Everything
about her spun round in an oppressive silence. She re-
membered perfectly as she told Mrs. Fyne that
clinging to the arm of the chair she called out twice "Papa!
Papa ! " At the thought that he was far away in London,
everything about her became quite still. Then fright-
ened suddenly by the solitude of that empty room, she
rushed out of it blindly.

With that fatal diffidence in well doing, inherent in
the present condition of humanity, the Fynes continued
to watch at their window. "It's always so difficult to
know what to do for the best," Fyne assured me. It is.
Good intentions stand in their own way so much. Where-
as if you want to do harm to any one you needn't hesitate.
You have only to go on. No one will reproach you with
your mistakes or call you a confounded, clumsy meddler.
The Fynes watched the door, the closed street door inimi-
cal somehow to their benevolent thoughts, the face of the
house cruelly impenetrable. It was just as on any other
day. The unchanged daily aspect of inanimate things is
so impressive that Fyne went back into the room for a
moment, picked up the paper again, and ran his eyes over
the time of news. No doubt of it. It looked very bad*
He came back to the window ard Mrs. Fyne. Tired out
as she was she sat there resoluce and ready for responsi-
bility. But she had no suggestion to offer. People do
fear a rebuff wonderfully, and all her audacity was in her

THE GOVERNESS 131

thoughts. She shrank from the incomparably insolent
manner of the governess. Fyne stood by her side, as in
those old-fashioned photographs of married couples where
you see a husband with his hand on the back of his wife's
chair. And they were about as efficient as an old photo-
graph, and as still, till Mrs. Fyne started slightly. The
street door had swung open, and, bursting out, appeared
the young man, his hat (Mrs. Fyne observed) tilted for-
ward over his eyes. After him the governess slipped
through, turning round at once to shut the door behind
her with care. Meantime, the man went down the white
steps and strode along the pavement, his hands rammed
deep into his pockets of his fawn overcoat. The woman,
that woman of composed movements, of deliberate supe-
rior manner, took a little run to catch up with him, and
directly she had caught up with him tried to introduce her
hand under his arm. Mrs. Fyne saw the brusque half
turn of the fellow's body as one avoids an importunate
contact, defeating her attempt rudely. She did not try
again, but kept pace with his stride, and Mrs. Fyne
watched them, walking independently, turn the corner of
the street side by side, disappear forever.

TheFynes looked at each other eloquently, doubtfully:
What do you think of this? Then with common accord
turned their eyes back to the street door ? closed, massive,
dark; the great, clear-brass knocker shining in a quiet
slant of sunshine cut by a diagonal line of heavy shade
filling the further end of the street. Could the girl be
already gone? Sent away to her father? Had she any
relations? Nobody but de Barral himself ever came to
see her, Mrs. Fyne remembered; and she had the in
stantaneous, profound, maternal perception of the child's

132 CHANCE

loneliness and a girl, too! It was irresistible. And,
besides, the departure of the governess was not without
its encouraging influence. "I am going over at once to
find out," she declared resolutely, but still staring across
the street. Her intention was arrested by the sight of
that awful, sombrely glistening door, swinging back sud-
denly on the yawning darkness of the hall, out of which
literally flew out, right out on the pavement, almost
without touching the white steps, a little figure swathed
in a holland pinafore up to the chin, its hair streaming
back from its head, darting past a lamp-post, past the
red pillar-box. . . . "Here," cried Mrs. Fyne; "she's
coming here! Run, John! Run!"

Fyne bounded out of the room. This is his own word.
Bounded ! He assured me with intensified solemnity that
he bounded; and the sight of the short and muscular
Fyne bounding gravely about the circumscribed passages
and staircases of a small, very high-class, private hotel,
would have been worth any amount of money to a man
greedy of memorable impressions. But as I looked at
him, the desire of laughter at my very lips, I asked myself:
how many men could be found ready to compromise their
cherished gravity for the sake of the unimportant child
of a ruined financier with an ugly, black cloud already
wreathing his head. I didn't laugh at little Fyne.
I encouraged him: "You did! very good. . . .
Well?"

His main thought was to save the child from some
unpleasant interference. There was a porter downstairs,
page boys; some people going away with their trunks
in the passage; a railway omnibus at the door, white-
breasted waiters dodging about the entrance.

THE GOVERNESS 133

He was in time. He was at the door before she reached
it in her blind course. She did not recognize him; perhaps
she did not see him. He caught her by the arm as she
ran past and, very sensibly, without trying to check her,
simply darted in with her, and up the stairs, causing no
end of consternation amongst the people in his way.
They scattered. What might have been their thoughts
at the spectacle of a shameless middle-aged man abducting
headlong into the upper regions of a respectable hotel a
terrified young girl obviously under age, I don't know.
And Fyne (he told me so) did not care for what people
might think. All he wanted was to reach his wife before
the girl collapsed. For a time she ran with him but at the
last flight of stairs he had to seize and half drag, half carry
her to his wife. Mrs. Fyne waited at the door with her
quite unmoved physiognomy and her readiness to confront
any sort of responsibility, which already characterized her,
long before she became a ruthless theorist. Relieved, his
mission accomplished, Fyne closed hastily the door of the
sitting-room.

But before long both Fynes became frightened. After
a period of immobility in the arms of Mrs. Fyne, the girl,
who had not said a word, tore herself out from that slightly
rigid embrace. She struggled dumbly between them, they
did not know why, soundless and ghastly, till she sank
exhausted on a couch. Luckily the children were out
with the two nurses. The hotel housemaid helped Mrs.
Fyne to put Flora de Barral to bed. She was as if gone
speechless and insane. She lay on her back, her face
white like a piece of paper, her dark eyes staring at the
ceiling, her awful immobility broken by sudden shivering
fits, with a loud chattering of teeth in the shadowy silence

134 CHANCE

of the room, the blinds pulled down, Mrs. Fyne sitting by
patiently, her arms folded, yet inwardly moved by the
riddle of that distress of which she could not guess the
word, and saying to herself: "That child is too emotional
much too emotional to be ever really sound!" As if
any one not made of stone could be perfectly sound in
this world. And then how sound? In what sense tc
resist what? Force or corruption? And even in the
best armour of steel there are joints a treacherous stroke
can always find if chance gives the opportunity.

General considerations never had the power to trouble
Mrs. Fyne much. The girl not being in a state to be
questioned she waited by the bedside. Fyne had crossed
over to the house, his scruples overcome by his anxiety
to discover what really had happened. He did not have
to lift the knocker; the door stood open on the inside
gloom of the hall; he walked into it and saw no one about,
the servants having assembled for a fatuous consultation
in the basement. Fyne's uplifted bass voice startled them
down there, the butler coming up staring, and in his shirt
sleeves, very suspicious at first, and then, on Fyne's
explanation that he was the husband of a lady who had
called several times at the house Miss de Barral's
mother's friend becoming humanely concerned and
communicative, in a man to man tone, but preserving
his trained high-class servant's voice: "Oh, bless you, sir,
no! She does not mean to come back. She told me so
herself " he assured Fyne with a faint shade of contempt
creeping into his tone.

As regards their young lady nobody downstairs had
any idea that she had run out of the house. He dared
say they all would have been willing to do their very

THE GOVERNESS 135

best for her, for the time being; but since she was now
with her mother's friends "

He fidgeted. He murmured that all this was very
unexpected. He wanted to know what he had better do
with letters or telegrams which might arrive in the course
of the day.

"Letters addressed to Miss dc Barral, you had better
bring over to my hotel over there," said Fyne, beginning to
feel extremely worried about the future. The man said
"Yes, sir," adding, "and if a letter comes addressed to
Mrs. ..."

Fyiie stopped him by a gesture. "I don't know. . . .
Anything you like."

"Very well, sir."

The butler did not shut the street door after Fyne, but
remained on the doorstep for a while, looking up and down
the street in the spirit of independent expectation like a
man who is again his own master. Mrs. Fyne hearing her
husband return came out of the room where the girl
was lying in bed. "No change," she whispered; and
Fyne could only make a hopeless sign of ignorance as to
what all this meant and how it would end.

He feared future complications naturally; a man of
limited means, in a public position, his time not his own.
Yes. He owned to me in the parlour of my farmhouse
that he had been very much concerned then at the possi-
ble consequences. But as he was making this artless
confession, I said to myself, that whatever consequences
and complications he might have imagined, the compli-
cation from which he was suffering now could never, never
have presented itself to his mind. Slow, but sure (for I
conceive that the Book of Destiny has been written up

136 CHANCE

from the beginning to the last page), it has been coming for
something like six years and now it had come. The
complication was there! I looked at his unshaken sol-
emnity with the amused pity we give the victim of a
funny, if somewhat ill-natured, practical joke.

"Oh, hang it," he exclaimed in no logical connection
with what he had been relating to me. Nevertheless, the
exclamation was intelligible enough.

However, at first there were, he admitted, no un-
toward complications, no embarrassing consequences. To
a telegram, in guarded terms despatched to de Barral, no
answer was received for more than twenty-four hours.
This certainly caused the Fynes some anxiety. When the
answer arrived late on the evening of the next day it was in
the shape of an elderly man. An unexpected sort of man.
Fyne explained to me with precision that he evidently
belonged to what is most respectable in the lower middle
classes. He was calm and slow in his speech. He was
wearing a frock-coat, had gray whiskers meeting under
his chin, and declared on entering that Mr. de Barral was
his cousin. He hastened to add that he had not seen his
cousin for many years, while he looked upon Fyne (who
received him alone) with so much distrust that Fyne felt
hurt (the person actually refusing at first the chair offered
to him) and retorted tartly that he, for his part, had never
seen Mr. de Barral in his life, and that, since the visitor
did not want to sit down, he, Fyne, begged him to state
his business as shortly as possible. The man in black sat
down then with a faint, superior smile.

He had come for the girl. His cousin had asked him in
a note delivered by a messenger to go to Brighton at once
and take "his girl" over from a gentleman named Fyne,

THE GOVERNESS 137

and give her houseroom for a time in his family. And
there he was. His business had not allowed him to come
sooner. His business was the manufacture on a large
scale of cardboard boxes. He had two grown-up girls of
his own. He had consulted his wife, and so that was all
right. The girl would get a welcome in his home. His
home, most likely, was not what she had been used to, but,
etc., etc.

All the time Fyne felt subtly in that man's manner a
derisive disapproval of everything that was not lower
middle class, a profound respect for money, a mean sort of
contempt for speculators that fail, and a conceited satis-
faction with his own respectable vulgarity.

With Mrs. Fyne the manner of the obscure cousin of
de Barral was but little less offensive. He looked at her
rather slyly, but her cold, decided demeanour impressed
him. Mrs. Fyne on her side was simply appalled by the
personage, but did not show it outwardly. Not even
when the man remarked with false simplicity that Florrie
her name was Florrie, wasn't it? would probably miss at
first all her grand friends. And when he was informed
that the girl was in bed, not feeling well at all, he showed an
unsympathetic alarm. She wasn't an invalid was she?
No. What was the matter with her then?

An extreme distaste for that respectable member of
society was depicted in Fyne's face even as he was telling
me of him after all these years. He was a specimen of
precisely the class of which people like the Fynes have the
least experience; and I imagine he jarred on them.
He possessed all the civic virtues in their very meanest
form, and the finishing touch was given by a low sort of
consciousness he manifested of possessing them. His

138 CHANCE

industry was exemplary. He wished to catch the earliest
possible train next morning. It seems that for seven and
twenty years he had never missed being seated on his
office-stool at the factory punctually at ten o'clock every
day. He listened to Mrs. Fyne's objections with undis-
guised impatience. Why couldn't Florrie get up anc*
have her breakfast at eight like other people? In his
house the breakfast was at eight sharp. Mrs. Fyne's
polite stoicism overcame him at last. He had come down
at a very great personal inconvenience, he assured he*
with displeasure, but he gave up the early train.

The good Fynes didn't dare to look at each other befor^
this unforeseen, but perfectly authorized guardian, thi
same thought springing up in their minds: Poor girl!
Poor girl! If the women of the family were like this, too!
. . . And of course they would be. Poor girl!
But what could they have done even if they had been
prepared to raise objections. The person in the frock-
coat had the father's note; he had shown it to Fyne,
Just a request to take care of the girl as her nearest
relative without any explanation or a single allusion to
the financial catastrophe, its tone strangely detached, and
in its very silence on the point, giving occasion to think
that the writer was not uneasy as to the child's future.
Probably it was that very idea which had set the cousin so
readily in motion. Men had come before out of commer-
cial crashes with estates in the country and a comfortable
income, if not for themselves then for their wives. And
if a wife could be made comfortable by a Hi tie dexterous
management, then why not a daughter? Yes. This
possibility might have been discussed in the person's
household and judged worth acting upon

THE GOVERNESS 139

The man actually hinted broadly that such was his belief,
and in face of Fyne's guarded replies gave him to under-
stand that he was not the dupe of such reticences. Ob-
viously he looked upon the Fynes as being disappointed
because the girl was taken away from them. They, by a
diplomatic sacrifice in the interests of poor Flora, had
asked the man to dinner. He accepted ungraciously re-
marking that he was not used to late hours. He had
generally a bit of supper about half-past eight or nine.
However . . .

He gazed contemptuously round the prettily decorated
dining-room. He wrinkled his nose in a puzzled way at
the dishes offered to him by the waiter but refused none,
devouring the food with a great appetite and drinking
("swilling" Fyrie called it) gallons of ginger beer, which
was procured for him (in stone bottles) at his request.
The difficulty of keeping up a conversation with that
being exhausted Mrs. Fyne herself, who had come to the
table armed with adamantine resolution. The only
memorable thing he said was when, in a pause of gorging
himself "with these French dishes, " he deliberately let his
eyes roam over the little tables occupied by parties of
diners, and remarked that his wife did for a moment think
of coming down with him, but that he was glad she didn't
do so. "She wouldn't have been at all happy seeing all
this alcohol about. Not at all happy," he declared
weightily.

"You must have had a charming evening, 55 I said to
Fyne, "if I may judge from the way you have kept the
memory green."

"Delightful," he growled with, positively, a flash of
anger at the recollection, but lapsed back into his solem-

140 CHANCE

nity at once. After we had been silent for a while I asked
whether the man took away the girl next day.

Fyne said that he did; in the afternoon, in a fly, with a
few clothes the maid had got together and brought across
from the big house. He only saw Flora again ten minutes
before they left for the railway station, in the Fynes'
sitting-room at the hotel. It was a most painful ten
minutes for the Fynes. The respectable citizen addressed
Miss de Barral as "Florrie, " and "my dear," remarking to
her that she was not very big, ''there's not much of you, my
dear, " in a familiarly disparaging tone. Then turning to
Mrs. Fyne, and quite loud, "She's very white in the face.
Why's that?" To this Mrs. Fyne made no reply. She
had put the girl's hair up that morning with herownhands.
It changed her very much, observed Fyne. He, naturally,
played a subordinate, merely approving part. All he
could do for Miss cle Barral personally was to go down-
stairs and put her into the fly himself, while Miss de
Barral's nearest relation, having been shouldered out of
the way, stood by, with an umbrella and a little black
bag, watching this proceeding with grim amusement, as it
seemed. It was difficult to guess what the girl thought
or what she felt. She no longer looked a child. She
whispered to Fyne a faint "Thank you," from the fly,
and he said to her in very distinct tones and while still
holding her hand: "Pray don't forget to write fully to
my wife in a day or two, Miss de Barral." Then Fyne
stepped back and the cousin climbed into the fly mutter-
ing quite audibly: "I don't think you'll be troubled much
with her in the future," without, however, looking at Fyne,
on whom he did not even bestow a nod. The fly drove

CHAPTER FIVE

THE TEA PARTY

A" IIABLE personality," I observed seeing Fyne on
the point of falling into a brown study. But I
could not help adding with meaning : " He hadn't
the gift of prophecy, though."

Fyne got up suddenly with a muttered "No, evidently
not." He was gloomy, hesitating. I supposed that he
would not wish to play chess that afternoon. This would
dispense me from leaving my rooms on a day much too fine
to be wasted in walking exercise. And I was disappointed
when, picking up his cap, he intimated to me his hope of
seeing me at the cottage about four o'clock as usual.

"It wouldn't be as usual." I put a particular stress on
that remark. He admitted, after a short reflection, that
it would not be. No. Not as usual. In fact it was his
wife who hoped, rather, for my presence. She had formed
a very favourable opinion of my practical sagacity.

This was the first I ever heard of it. I had never sus-
pected that Mrs. Fyne had taken the trouble to distin-
guish in me the signs of sagacity or folly. The few words
we had exchanged last night in the excitement or the
bother of the girl's disappearance, were the first moder-
ately significant words which had ever passed between us.
I had felt myself always to be in Mrs. Fyne's view, her
husband's chess-player and nothing else a conven-
ience almost an implement.

lii

CHANCE

"I am highly flattered," I said. "I have always
heard that there are no limits to feminine intuition; and
now I am half inclined to believe it is so. But still I fail to
see in what way my sagacity, practical or otherwise, can
be of any service to Mrs. Fyne. One man's sagacity is
very much like any other man's sagacity. And with you
at hand "

Fyne, manifestly not attending to what I was saying,
directed straight at me his worried, solemn eyes and struck
in:

"Yes, yes. Very likely. But you will come won't you?"

I had made up my mind that no Fyne of either sex
would make me walk three miles (there and back to their
cottage) on this fine day. If the Fynes had been an
average social couple one knows, only because leisure
must be got through somehow, 1 \\ould have made short
work of that special invitation. But they were not that.
Their undeniable humanity had to be acknowledged. At
the same time I wanted to have my own way. So I pro-
posed that I should be allowed the pleasure of offering
them a cup of tea at my rooms.

A short reflective pause and Fyne accepted eagerly
in his own and his wife's name. A moment after I heard
the click of the gate-latch, and then in an ecstasy of barking
from his demonstrative dog, his serious head went past my
window on the other side of the hedge, its troubled gaze
fixed forward, and the mind inside obviously employed
in earnest speculation of an intricate nature. One at
least of his wife's girl-friends had become more than a mere
shadow for him. I surmised however, that it was not of
the girl-friend but of his wife that Fyne was thinking. Ht
was an excellent husband

THE TEA PARTY 143

I prepared myself for the afternoon's hospitalities,
calling in the farmer's wife and reviewing with her the
resources of the house and the village. She was a helpful
woman. But the resources of my sagacity I did not
iwiew. Except in the gross material sense of the after-
noon tea I made no preparations for Mrs.Fyne.

It was impossible for me to make any such preparations.
I could not tell what sort of sustenance she would look for
from my sagacity. And as to taking stock of the wares
of my mind no one I imagine is anxious to do that sort of
thing if it can be avoided. A vaguely grandiose state of
mental self-confidence is much too agreeable to be dis-
turbed recklessly by such a delicate investigation. Per-
haps if I had had a helpful woman at my elbow, a dear,
flattering acute, devoted woman. . . . There are in
life moments when one positively regrets not being mar-
ried. No ! I don't exaggerate. I have said moments,
not years or even days. Moments. The farmer's wife
obviously could not be asked to assist. She could not have
been expected to possess the necessary insight and I doubt
whether she would have known how to be flattering
enough. She was being helpful in her own way, with an
extraordinary black bonnet on her head, a good mile off
by that time, trying to discover in the village shops a piece
of eatable cake. The pluck of women! The optimism of
the dear creatures !

And she managed to find something which looked
eatable. That's all I know as I had no opportunity to
observe the more intimate effects of that comestible. I,
myself, never eat cake, and Mrs. Fyne, when she arrived
punctually, brought with her no appetite for cake. She
had no appetite for anything. But she had a thirst the

144 CHANCE

sign of deep, of tormenting emotion. Yes, it was emotion,
not the brilliant sunshine more brilliant than warm as is
the way of our discreet self -repressed, distinguished, in-
sular sun, which would not turn a real lady scarlet not
on any account. Mrs. Fyne looked even cool. She wore
a white skirt and coat; a white hat with a large brim re-
posed on her smoothly arranged hair. The coat was cut
something like an army mess-jacket and the style suited
her. I daresay there are many youthful subalterns, and
not the worst-looking, too, who resemble Mrs. Fyne in the
type of face, in the sunburnt complexion, down to that
something alert in bearing. But not many would have
had that aspect breathing a readiness to assume any re-
sponsibility under Heaven. This is the sort of courage
which ripens late in life, and of course Mrs. Fyne was of
.nature years for all her un wrinkled face.

She looked round the room, told me positively that I was
very comfortable there; to which I assented, humbly,
acknowledging my undeserved good fortune.

"Why undeserved?" she wanted to know.

"I engaged these rooms by letter without asking any
questions. It might have been an abominable hole,"
I explained to her. "I always do things like that. I
don't like to be bothered. This is no great proof of
sagacity is it? Sagacious people I believe like to exer-
cise that faculty. I have heard that they can't even help
showing it in the veriest trifles. It must be very delight-
ful. But I know nothing of it. I think that I have no
sagacity no practical sagacity."

Fyne made an inarticulate bass murmur of protest.
I asked after the children whom I had not seen yet since
my return from town. They had been very well. They

THE TEA PARTY 145

were always well. Both Fyne and Mrs. Pyne spoke of the
rude health of their children as if it were a result of moral
excellence; in a peculiar tone which seemed to imply some
contempt for people whose children were liable to be un-
well at times. One almost felt inclined to apologize for
the inquiry. And this annoyed me; unreasonably, I
admit, because the assumption of superior merit is not a
very exceptional weakness. Anxious to make myself dis-
agreeable by way of retaliation I observed in accents of
interested civility that the dear girls must have been won-
dering at the sudden disappearance of their mother's
young friend. Had they been putting any awkward
questions about Miss Smith? Wasn't it as Miss Smith
that Miss de Barral had been introduced to me?

Mrs. Fyne, staring fixedly but also colouring deeper
under her tan, told me that the children had never liked
Flora very much. She hadn't the high spirits which en-
dear grown-ups to healthy children, Mrs. Fyne explained
unflinchingly. Flora had been staying at the cottage
several times before. Mrs. Fyne assured me that she
often found it very difficult to have her in the house.

"But what else could we do?" she exclaimed.

That little cry of distress quite genuine in its inexpres-
siveness, altered my feeling toward Mrs. Fyne. It
would have been so easy to have done nothing and to have
thought no more about it. My liking for her began while
she was trying to tell me of the night she spent by the
girl's bedside, the night before her departure with her un-
prepossessing relative. That Mrs. Fyne found means to
comfort the child I doubt very much. She had not the
genius for the task of undoing that which the hate of an
infuriated woman had planned so well.

CHANCE

You will tell me perhaps that children's impressions ar<
not durable. That's true enough. But here, child is only
a manner of speaking. The girl was within a few days of
her sixteenth birthday; she was old enough to be matured
by the shock. The very effort she had to make in convey-
ing the impression to Mrs. Fyne, in remembering the de-
tails, in finding adequate words or any words at all
was in itself a terribly enlightening, an aging process.
She had talked a long time, uninterrupted by Mrs. Fyne,
childlike enough in her wonder and pain, pausing now
and then to interject the pitiful query : " It was cruel of her.
Wasn't it cruel, Mrs. Fyne?"

For Charley she found excuses. He at any rate had not
said anything, while lie had looked very gloomy and
miserable. He couldn't have taken part against his aunt
could he? But after all he did, when she called upon
him, take ** that cruel woman away/' He had dragged
her out by the arm. She had seen that plainly. She
remembered it. That was it! The woman was mad.
"Oh! Mrs. Fyne don't tell me she wasn't mad. If you
had only seen her face ..."

But Mrs. Fyne was unflinching in her idea that as
much truth as could be told was due in the way of kindness
to the girl, whose fate she feared would be to live exposed
to the hardest realities of unprivileged existences. She
explained to her that there were in the world evil-minded
elfish people. Unscrupulous people. . . . These
Iwo persons had been after her father's money. The best
thing she could do was to forget all about them.

"After papa's money? I don't understand," poor
Flora de Barral had murmured, and lay still as if trying to
think it out in the silence and shadows of the room where

THE TEA PARTY 147

only a night-light was burning. Then she had a long
shivering fit while holding tight the hand of Mrs. Fyne
whose patient immobility by the bedside of that brutally
murdered childhood did infinite honour to her humanity.
That vigil must have been the more trying because I could
j?ec very well that at no time did she think the victim par-
ticularly charming or sympathetic. It was a manifes-
tation of pure compassion, of compassion in itself, so to
speak, not many women would have been capable of
displaying, with that unflinching steadiness. The shiver-
ing fit over, the girl's next words in an outburst of sobs
were, "Oh, Mrs. Fyne am I really such a horrid thing as
she has made me out to be?"

"No, no!" protested Mrs. Fyne. "It is your former
governess who is horrid and odious. She is a vile woman.
I cannot tell you that she was mad, but I think she must
have been beside herself with rage and full of evil thoughts.
You must try not to think of these abominations, my dear
child."

They were not fit for any one to think of much, Mrs.
Fyne commented to me in a curt, positive tone. All that
had been very trying. The girl was like a creature
struggling under a net.

"But how can I forget she called my father a cheat
and a swindler? Do tell me, Mrs. Fyne, that it isn't true.
It can't be true. How can it be true? "

She sat up in bed with a sudden wild motion as if to
jump out and flee away from the sound of the w r ords which
had just passed her own lips. Mrs. Fyne restrained her,
soothed her, induced her at last to lay her head on her
pillow again, assuring her all the time that nothing this
Woman had had the cruelty to say deserved to be taken to

148 CHANCE

heart. The girl, exhausted, cried quietly for a time. It
may be she had noticed something evasive in Mrs. Fyne's
assurances. After a while, without stirring, she whispered
brokenly :

"That awful woman told me that all the world would
call papa these awful names. Is it possible? Is it possible?"

Mrs. Fyne kept silent.

"Do say something to me, Mrs. Fyne,' 5 the daughter of
de Barral insisted in the same feeble whisper.

Again Mrs. Fyne assured me that it had been very
trying. Terribly trying. "Yes, thanks, I will." She
leaned back in the chair with folded arms while I poured
another cup of tea for her, and Fyne went out to pacify the
dog, which, tied up under the porch, had become suddenly
very indignant at somebody having the audacity to walk
along the lane. Mrs. Fyne stirred her tea for a long time,
drank a little, put the cup down, and said with that air of
accepting all the consequences:

"Silence would have been unfair. I don't think it
would have been kind either. I told her that she must be
prepared for the world passing a very severe judgment on
her father ..."

"Wasn't it admirable," cried Marlow interrupting his
narrative. "Admirable!" And as I looked dubiously at
this unexpected enthusiasm he started justifying it after
his own manner.

I say adtnirable because it was so characteristic. It
was perfect. Nothing short of genius could have found
better. And this was nature! As they say of an artist's
work: this was a perfect Fyne. Compassion judicious-
ness something correctly measured. None of your di-
shevelled sentiment. And right! You must confess that

THE TEA PARTY 149

nothing could have been more right. I had a mind to
shout "Brava! Brava!" but I did not do that. I took a
piece of cake and went out to bribe the Fyne dog into some
sort of self-control. His sharp, comical yapping was un-
bearable, like stabs through one's brain, and Fyne's
deeply modulated remonstrances abashed the vivacious
animal no more than the deep, patient murmur of the sea
abashes a nigger minstrel on a popular beach. Fyne was
beginning to swear at him in low, sepulchral tones when I
appeared. The dog became at once wildly demonstrative,
half -strangling himself in his collar, his eyes and tongue
hanging out in the excess of his uncomprehensible affection
for me. This was before he caught sight of the cake in my
hand. A series of vertical springs high up in the air fol-
lowed, and then, when he got the cake, he instantly lost
his interest in everything else.

Fyne was slightly vexed with me. As kind a master as
any dog could wish to have, he yet did not approve of
cake being given to dogs. The Fyne dog was supposed
to lead a Spartan existence on a diet of repulsive biscuits,
with an occasional dry, hygienic bone thrown in. Fyne
looked down gloomily at]the appeased animal, I, too, looked
at that fool-dog; and (you know how one's memory gets
suddenly stimulated) I was reminded visually, with an
almost painful distinctness, of the ghostly white face of
the girl I saw last accompanied by that dog deserted by
that dog. I almost heard her distressed voice as if on
the verge of resentful tears calling to the dog, the unsym-
pathetic dog. Perhaps she had not the power of evoking
sympathy, that personal gift of direct appeal to the feel-
ings. I said to Fyne, mistrusting the supine attitude
of the dog:

150 CHANCE

"Why don't you let him come inside?"

Oh, dear no! He couldn't think of it! I might indeed
have saved my breath, I knew it was one of the Fynes*
rules of life, part of their solemnity and responsibility, one
of those things that were part of their unassertive but ever-
present superiority, that their dog must not be allowed in.
It was most improper to intrude the dog into the houses of
the people they were calling on if it were only a careless
bachelor in farmhouse lodgings and a personal friend of the
dog. It was out of the question. But they would let him
bark one's sanity away outside one's window. They were
strangely consistent in their lack of imaginative sympathy.
I didn't insist, but simply led the way back to the parlour,
hoping that no wayfarer would happen along the lane for
the next hour or so to disturb the dog's composure.

Mrs. Fyne seated immovable before the table charged
with plates, cups, jugs, a cold teapot, crumbs, and the
general litter of the entertainment turned her head toward

us.

"You see, Mr. Marlow," she said in an unexpectedly
confidential tone, "they are so utterly unsuited for each
other."

At the moment I did not know how to apply this re-
mark. I thought at first of Fyne and the dog. Then I
adjusted it to the matter in hand which was neither more
nor less than an elopement. Yes, by Jove! It was
something very much like an elopement with certain
unusual characteristics of its own which made it in a sense
equivocal. With amused wonder I remembered that my
sagacity was requisitioned in such a connection. How
unexpected ! But we never know what tests our gifts may
be put to. Sagacity dictated caution first of all. I be-

THE TEA PARTY 151

lieve caution to be the first duty of sagacity. Fyne sat
down as if preparing himself to witness a joust I thought.

"Do you think so, Mrs. Fyne?" I said sagaciously.
" Of course you are in a position ..." I was con-
tinuing with caution when she struck out vivaciously for
immediate assent.

"Obviously! Clearly! You yourself must adv
mit . . . . "

"But, Mrs. Fyne," I remonstrated, "you forget that
I don't know your brother."

This argument which was not only sagacious but true,
overwhelmingly true, unanswerably true, seemed to sur-
prise her.

I wondered why. I did not know enough of her brother
for the remotest guess at what he might be like. I had
never set eyes on the man. I didn't know him, so com-
pletely, that by contrast I seemed to have known Miss de
Barral whom I had seen twice (altogether about sixty
minutes) and with whom I had exchanged about sixty
words from the cradle so to speak. And perhaps, I
thought, looking down at Mrs. Fyne (I had remained
islanding), perhaps she thinks that this ought to be enough
for a sagacious assent.

She kept silent; and T, looking at her with polite expecta-
tion, went on addressing her mentally in a mood of
familiar approval which would have astonished her had
it been audible: "You, my dear, at any rate are a sincere
woman ..."

"I call a woman sincere," Marlow began again after
giving me a cigar and lighting one himself, "I call a woman
sincere when she volunteers a statement resembling re-
motely in form what she really would like to say, what she

152 CHANCE

really thinks ought to be said if it were not for the necessity,
to spare the stupid sensitiveness of men. The women's
rougher, simpler, more upright judgment embraces the
whole truth, which their tact, their mistrust of masculine
idealism, ever prevents them from speaking in its entirety.
And their tact is unerring. We could not stand women
speaking the truth. We could not bear it. It would
cause infinite misery and bring about most awful disturb-
ances in this rather mediocre, but still idealistic fool's
paradise in which each of us lives his own little life the
unit in the great sum of existence. And they know it.
They are merciful. This generalization does not apply
exactly to Mrs. Pyne's outburst of sincerity in a matter
in which neither my affections nor my vanity were en-
gaged. That's why, maybe, she ventured so far. For a
woman she chose to be as open as the day with me. There
was not only the form but almost the whole substance of
her thought in what she said. She believed she could
risk it. She had reasoned somewhat in this way; there's
a man, possessing a certain amount of sagacity ..."

Marlow paused with a whimsical look at me. The last
few words he had spoken with the cigar in his teeth. He
took it out now by an ample movement of his arm and
blew a thin cloud.

You smile? It would have been more kind to spare
my blushes. But as a matter of fact I need not blush.
This is not vanity; it is analysis. We'll let sagacity stand.
But we must also note what sagacity in this connection
stands for. When you see this you shall see also that
there was nothing in it to alarm my modesty. I don't
think Mrs. Fyne credited me with the possession of wis-
dom tempered by common sense. And had I had the

THE TEA PARTY 153

wisdom of the Seven Sages of Antiquity, she would not
have been moved to confidence or admiration. The secret
scorn of women for the capacity to consider judiciously
and to express profoundly a meditated conclusion is un-
bounded. They have no use for these lofty exercises which
they look upon as a sort of purely masculine game game
meaning a respectable occupation devised to kill time in
this man-arranged life which must be got through some-
how. What women's acuteness really respects are the
inept "ideas" and the sheep-like impulses by which our
actions and opinions are determined in matters of real
importance. For if women are not rational they are in-
deed acute. Even Mrs. Fyne was acute. The good
woman was making up to her husband's chess-player
simply because she had scented in him that small portion
of "femininity," that drop of superior essence of which I
^m myself aware; which, I gratefully acknowledge, has
saved me from one or two misadventures in my life, either
ridiculous or lamentable, I am not very certain which. It
matters very little. Anyhow misadventures. Observe
that I say "femininity, " a privilege not "feminism," an
attitude. I am not a feminist. It was Fyne, who, on cer-
tain solemn grounds, had adopted that mental attitude;
but it was enough to glance at him sitting on one side, to
3ee that he was purely masculine to his finger-tips, mascu-
line, solidly, densely, amusingly hopelessly.

I did glance at him. You don't get your sagacity recog-
nized by a man's wife without feeling the propriety and
even the need to glance at the man now and again. So I
glanced at him. Very masculine. So much so that
" hopelessly " was not the last word of it. He was helpless.
He was bound and delivered by it. And if by the obscure

154 CHANCE

promptings of my composite temperament I beheld him
with malicious amusement, yet being in fact, by definition,
and especially from profound conviction, a man, I could
not help sympathizing with him largely. Seeing him thus
disarmed, so completely captive by the very nature of
things, I was moved to speak to him kindly.

" Well ? And what do you think of it ? "

"I don't know. How's one to tell. But I say that
the thing is done now and there's an end of it," said the
masculine creature as bluntly as his innate solemnity per-
mitted.

Mrs. Fyne moved a little in her chair. I turned to her
and remarked gently that this was a charge, a criticism
which was often made. Some people always ask: What
could he see in her? Others wonder what she could have
seen in him? Expressions of unsuitability.

She said with all the emphasis of her quietly folded arm\ i
"I know perfectly well what Flora has seen in my
brother."

I bowed my head to the gust but pursued my point.

" And then the marriage in most cases turns out no worse
than the average, to say the least of it."

Mrs. Fyne was disappointed by the optimistic turn of
my sagacity. She rested her eyes on my face as though
in doubt whether I had enough femininity in my composi-
tion to understand the case.

I waited for her to speak. She seemed to be asking her-
self : Is it, after all, worth while to talk to that man? You
understand how provoking this was. I looked in my mind
for something appallingly stupid to say, with the object
of distressing and teasing MBS. Fyne. It is humiliating to
a failure. Chir would think that a man of average

THE TEA PARTY 155

intelligence could command stupidity at will. But it isn't
so. I suppose it's a special gift or else the difficulty
consists in being relevant. Discovering that I could find
no really telling stupidity, I turned to the next best thing,
a platitude. I advanced in a common-sense tone, that
surely, in the matter of marriage a man had only himself
to please.

Mrs. Fyne received this without the flutter of an eyelid.
Fyne's masculine breast, as might have been expected,
was pierced by that old, regulation shaft. He grunted
most feelingly. I turned to him with false simplicity.
"Don't you agree with me?"

"The very thing I've been telling my wife/' he
exclaimed in his extra-manly bass. "We have been
discussing . . . "

A discussion in the Fyne menage! How portentous!
Perhaps the very first difference they had ever had;
Mrs. Fyne unflinching and ready for any responsibility,
Fyne solemn and shrinking the children in bed upstairs;
and outside, the dark fields, the shadowy contours of the
land on the starry background of the universe, with the
crude light of the open window like a beacon for the truant
who would never come back now; a truant no longer
but a downright fugitive. Yet a fugitive carrying off
spoils. It was the flight of a raider or a traitor? This
affair of the purloined brother, as I had named it to myself,
had a very puzzling physiognomy. The girl must have
been desperate. I thought, hearing the grave voice of Fyne
well enough, but catching the sense of his words not at all,
except the very last words which were:

"Of course, it's extremely distressing."

I looked at him inquisitively, What was distressing

156 CHANCE

him? The purloining of the son of the poet-tyrant by the
daughter of the financier-convict. Or only, if I may say
so, the wind of their flight disturbing the solemn placidity
of the Fynes' domestic atmosphere. My incertitude did
not last long, for he added:

"Mrs. Fyne urges me to go to London at once."

One could guess at, almost see, his profound distaste
for the journey, his distress at a difference of feeling with
his wife. With his serious view of the sublunary comedy,
Fyne suffered from not being able to agree solemnly with
her sentiment as he was accustomed to do, in recognition
of having had his way in one supreme instance; when he
made her elope with him the most momentous step
imaginable in a young lady's life. He had been really
trying to acknowledge it by taking the Tightness of her
feeling for granted on every other occasion. It had be-
come a sort of habit at last. And it is never pleasant to
break a habit. The man was deeply troubled. I said,
" Really! To go to London!"

He looked dumbly into my eyes. It was pathetic and
funny. "And you, of course, feel it would be useless,"
I pursued.

He evidently felt that, though he said nothing. He
only went on blinking at me with a solemn and comical
slowness. "Unless it be to carry there the family's
blessing," I went on, indulging my chaffing humour
steadily, in a rather sneaking fashion, for I dared not look
at Mrs. Fyne, to my right. No sound or movement came
from that direction. "You think very naturally that to
match mere good, sound reasons, against the passionate
conclusions of love is a waste of intellect bordering on the
absurd."

THE TEA PARTY 157

He looked surprised as if I had discovered something
very clever. He, dear man, had thought of nothing at all.
He simply knew that he did not want to go to London on
that mission. Mere masculine delicacy. In a moment he
became enthusiastic.

4 'Yes! Yes! Exactly. A man in love . . . You
hear, my dear? Here you have an independent
opinion ..."

"Can anything be more hopeless," I insisted to the
fascinated little Fyne, "than to pit reason against love.
I must confess, however, that in this case when I think of
that poor girl's sharp chin I wonder if . . . "

My levity was too much for Mrs. Fyne. Still leaning
back in her chair she exclaimed :

"Mr.Marlow!"

As if mysteriously affected by her indignation the
absurd Fyne dog began to bark in the porch. It might
have been at a trespassing bumble-bee, however. That
animal was capable of any eccentricity. Fyne got up
quickly and went out to him. I think he was glad to leave
us alone to discuss that matter of his journey to London.
A sort of anti-sentimental journey. He, too, apparently,
had confidence in my sagacity. It was touching, this
confidence. It was at any rate more genuine than the
confidence his wife pretended to have in her husband's
chess-player, of three successive holidays. Confidence be
hanged! Sagacity indeed! She had simply marched
in without a shadow of misgiving to make me back her up.
But she had delivered herself into my hands. . . .

Interrupting his narrative Marlow addressed me in
his tone between grim jest and grim earnest :

158 CHANCE

"Perhaps you didn't know that my character is upon
the whole rather vindictive."

"No, I didn't know," I said with a grin. "That's
rather unusual for a sailor. They always seemed to me
the least vindictive body of men in the world."

"H'm! Simple souls," Marlow muttered moodily.
"Want of opportunity. The world leaves them alone for
the most part. For myself it's toward women that I feel
vindictive mostly, in my small way. I admit that it is
small. But then the occasions in themselves are not great.
Mainly I resent that pretence of winding us round their
dear little lingers, as of right. Not that the result ever
amounts to much, generally. There are so very few mo-
mentous opportunities. It is the assumption that each
of us is a combination of a kid and an imbecile which I
find provoking in a small way; in a very small way.
You needn't stare as though I were breathing fire and
smoke out of my nostrils. I am not a women-devouring
monster. I am not even what is technically called 'a brute.'
I hope there's enough of a kid and an imbecile in me to
answer the requirements of some really good woman event-
ually some day. . . . Some day. Why do you
gasp? You don't suppose I should be afraid of getting
married? That supposition would be offensive . . . "

"I wouldn't dream of offending you," I said.

"Very well. But, meantime, please remember that I
was not married to Mrs. Fyne. That lady's little finger
was none of my legal property. I had not run off with it.
It was Fyne who had done that thing. Let him be wound
round as much as his backbone could stand or even
more, for all I cared. His rushing away from the discus-
sion on the transparent pretence of quieting the dog con-

THE TEA PARTY 159

firmed my notion of there being a considerable strain on
his elasticity. I confronted Mrs. Fyne, resolved not to
assist her in her eminently feminine occupation of thrust-
ing a stick in the spokes of another woman's wheel.

She tried to preserve her calm-eyed superiority. She
was familiar and olympian, fenced in by the tea-table, that
excellent symbol of domestic life in its lighter hour and its
perfect security. In a few severely unadorned words she
gave me to understand that she had ventured to hope for
some really helpful suggestion from me. To this almost
chiding declaration because my vindictiveness seldom
goes further than a bit of teasing I said that I was really
doing my best. And being a physiognomist . . . "

"Being what?" she interrupted me.

"A physiognomist," I repeated raising my voice a little.

"A physiognomist, Mrs. Fyne. And on the principles
of that science a pointed little chin is a sufficient ground
for interference. You want to interfere do you not?"

Her eyes grew distinctly bigger. She had never been
bantered before in her life. The late subtle poet's method
of making himself unpleasant was merely savage and abu-
sive: Fyne had been always solemnly subservient.
What other men she knew I cannot tell, but I assume they
must have been gentlemanly creatures. The girl-friends
sat at her feet. How could she recognize my intention.
She didn't know what to make of my tone.

"Are you serious in what you say?" she asked slowly.
And it was touching. It was as if a very young, confiding
girl had spoken. I felt myself relenting.

"No. I am not, Mrs. Fyne," I said. "I didn't know
I was expected to be serious as well as sagacious. No.
That science is farcical and therefore I am not serious

160 CHANCE

It's true that most sciences are farcical except those which
teach us how to put things together."

"The question is how to keep these two people apart/'
she struck in. She had recovered. I admired the quick-
ness of women's wit. Mental agility is a rare perfection.
And aren't they agile! Aren't they just! And tena-
cious! When they once get hold you may uproot the tree
but you won't shake them off the branch. In fact the
more you shake . . . But only look at the charm of
contradictory perfections! No wonder men give in
generally. I won't say I was actually charmed by Mrs.
Fyne. I was not delighted with her. What affected me
was not what she displayed but something which she
could not conceal. And that was emotion nothing less.
The form of her declaration was dry, almost peremptory
but not its tone. Her voice faltered just the least bit,
she smiled faintly; and as we were looking straight at each
other I observed that her eyes were glistening in a peculiar
manner. She Wc r is distressed. And indeed that Mrs.
Fyne should have appealed to me at all was in itself the
evidence of her profound distress. "By Jove, she's desper-
ate, too," I thought. This discovery was followed by a
movement of instinctive shrinking from this unreasonable
and unmasculine affair. They were all alike, with their
supreme interest aroused only by fighting with each other
about some man: a lover, a son, a brother.

"But do you think there's time yet to do anything?" I
asked.

She had an impatient movement of her shoulders with-
out detaching herself from the back of the chair. Time?
Of course! It was less than forty-eight hours since she
had followed him to London . . , I am no great clerk

THE TEA PARTY 161

at those matters, but I murmured vaguely an allusion to
special licenses. We couldn't tell what might have hap-
pened to-day already. But she knew better, scornfully.
Nothing had happened.

"Nothing's likely to happen before next Friday week,
if then."

This was wonderfully precise. Then after a pause she
added that she should never forgive herself if some effort
were not made, an appeal.

"To your brother?" I asked.

"Yes. John ought to go to-morrow. Nine o'clock
train."

"So early as that!" I said. But I could not find it in
my heart to pursue this discussion in a jocular tone. I
submitted to her several obvious arguments, dictated
apparently by common sense, but in reality by my secret
compassion. Mrs. Fyne brushed them aside with the
semi-conscious egoism of all safe, established existences.
They had known each other so little. Just three weeks.
And of that time, too short for the birth of any serious
sentiment, the first week had to be deducted. They
would hardly look at each other to begin with. Flora
barely consented to acknowledge Captain Anthony's
presence. Good morning good night that was all
absolutely the whole extent of their intercourse. Captain
Anthony was a silent man, completely unused to the so-
ciety of girls of any sort, and so shy in fact that he avoided
raising his eyes to her face at the table. It was perfectly
absurd. It was even inconvenient, embarrassing to her
Mrs. Fyne. After breakfast Flora would go off by herself
for a long walk and Captain Anthony (Mrs. Fyne referred
to him at times also as Roderick) joined the children. But

162 CHANCE

he was actually too shy to get on terms with his own
nieces.

This would have sounded pathetic if I hadn't known the
Fyne children who were at the same time solemn and
malicious, and nursed a secret contempt for all the world.
No one could get on terms with those fresh and comely
young monsters! They just tolerated their parents and
seemed to have a sort of mocking understanding among
themselves against all outsiders, yet with no visible affec-
tion for each other. They had the habit of exchanging
derisive glances which to a shy man must have been very
trying. They thought their uncle no doubt a bore and
perhaps an ass.

I was not surprised to hear that very soon Anthony
formed the habit of crossing the two neighbouring fields
to seek the shade of a clump of elms at a good distance
from the cottage. He lay on the grass and smoked his
pipe all the morning. Mrs. Fyne wondered at her
brother's indolent habits. He asked for books, it is true,
but there were but few in the cottage. He read them
through in three days and then continued to lie content-
edly on his back with no other companion but his pipe.
Amazing indolence! The live-long morning. Mrs. Fyne,
busy writing upstairs in the cottage, could see him out of
the window. She had a very long sight, and these elms
were grouped on a rise of the ground. His indolence was
plainly exposed to her criticism on a gentle green slope.
Mrs. Fyne wondered at it; she was disgusted, too. But
having just then "commenced author," as you know, she
could not tear herself away from the fascinating novelty.
She let him wallow in his vice. I imagine Captain Anthony
must have had a rather pleasant time in a quiet way. It

THE TEA PARTY 163

was, I remember, a hot dry summer, favourable to contem-
plative life out of doors. And Mrs. Fyne was scandalized.
Women don't understand the force of a contempla-
tive temperament. It simply shocks them. They
feel instinctively that it is the one which escapes best the
domination of feminine influences. The dear girls were
exchanging jeering remarks about "lazy Uncle Roderick"
openly, in her indulgent hearing. And it was so strange,
she told me, because as a boy he was anything but indo-
lent. On the contrary, always active.

I remarked that a man of thirty-five was no longer
a boy. It was an obvious remark but she received it
without favour. She told me positively that the best,
the nicest men remained boys all their lives. She was
disappointed not to be able to detect anything boyish in
her brother. Very, very sorry. She had not seen him
for fifteen years or thereabouts, except on three or four
occasions for a few hours at a time. No. Not a trace of
the boy, he used to be, left in him.

She fell silent for a moment and I mused idly on the
boyhood of little Fyne. I could not imagine what it
might have been like. His dominant trait was clearly the
remnant of still earlier days, because IVe never seen such
staring solemnity as Fyne's except in a very young baby.
But where was he all that time? Didn't he suffer con-
tamination from the indolence of Captain Anthony, I
inquired. I was told that Mr. Fyne was very little at
the cottage at the time. Some colleague of his was con-
valescing after a severe illness in a little seaside village
in the neighbourhood, and Fyne went off every morning
by train to spend the day with the elderly invalid who
Jiad no one to look after him, It was a very praiseworthy

164 CHANCE

excuse for neglecting his brother-in-law "the son of the
poet you know/' with whom he had nothing in common
even in the remotest degree. If Captain Anthony (Roder-
ick) had been a pedestrian it would have been sufficient;
but he was not. Still, in the afternoon, he went some-
times for a slow, casual stroll, by himself, of course, the
children having definitely cold-shouldered him, and his
only sister being busy with that inflammatory book which
was to blaze upon the world a year or more afterward.
It seems, however, that she w T as capable of detaching her
eyes from her task now and then, if only for a moment, be-
cause it was from that garret, fitted out for a study, that one
afternoon she -observed her brother and Flora de Barral
coming down the road side by side. They had met some-
where, accidentally (which of them crossed the other's
path, as the saying is, I don't know), and were returning to
tea together. She noticed that they appeared to be con-
versing without constraint.

"I had the simplicity to be pleased," Mrs. Fyne com-
mented with a dry little laugh. ''Pleased for both their
sakes." Captain Anthony shook off his indolence from
that day forth, and accompanied Miss Flora frequently
on her morning walks. Mrs. Fyne remained pleased.
She could now forget them comfortably and give herself
up to the delights of audacious thought and literary com-
position. Only a week before the blow fell, she, happening
to raise her eyes from the paper, saw two figures seated
on the grass under the shade of the elms. She could make
out the white blouse. There could be no mistake.

"I supposed they imagined themselves concealed by
the hedge. They forgot no doubt I was working in the
garret/ 1 she said bitterly. "Or perhaps they didn't care.

THE TEA PARTY 165

They were right. I am rather a simple person . . . "
She laughed again . . . " I was incapable of suspect-
ing such duplicity."

"Duplicity is a strong word, Mrs. Fyne isn't it?'* I
expostulated. "And considering that Captain Anthony
himself ..."

"Oh, well perhaps," she interrupted me. Her eyes
which never strayed away from mine, her set features, her
whole immovable figure, how well I knew those appear-
ances of a person who has "made up her mind." A very
hopeless condition that, specially in women. I mistrusted
her concession so easily, so stonily made. She reflected
a moment. "Yes. I ought to have said ingratitude,
perhaps."

After having thus disengaged her brother and pushed
the poor girl a little further off as it were isn't women's
cleverness perfectly diabolic when they are really put on
their mettle? after having done these things and also
made me feel that I was no match for her, she went on
scrupulously: "One doesn't like to use that word either.
The claim is very small. It's so little one could do for
her. Still ..."

"I daresay," I exclaimed, throwing diplomacy to the
winds. "But really, Mrs. Fyne, it's impossible to dismiss
your brother like this out of the business ..."

"She threw herself at his head," Mrs. Fyne uttered
firmly.

"He had no business to put his head in the way, then,"
I retorted with an angry laugh. I didn't restrain myself
because her fixed stare seemed to express the purpose to
daunt me. I was not afraid of her, but it occurred to me
that I was within an ^ce of drifting into a downright

166 CHANCE

quarrel with a lady and, besides, my guest. There was
the cold teapot, the emptied cups, emblems of hospitality.
It could not be. I cut short my angry laugh while
Mrs. Fyne murmured with a slight movement of her
shoulders, "He! Poor man! Oh, come . . . "

By a great effort of will I found myself able to smile
amiably, to speak with proper softness.

"My dear Mrs. Fyne, you forget that I don't know him
not even by sight. It's difficult to imagine a victim as
passive as all that; but granting you the (I very nearly
said, imbecility, but checked myself in time) the in-
nocence of Captain Anthony, don't you think now,
frankly, that there is a little of your own fault in what
has happened? You bring them together, you leave
your brother to himself "

She sat up, and leaning her elbow on the table sustained
her head in her open palm casting down her eyes. Com-
punction? It was indeed a very off-hand way of treating
a brother come to stay for the first time in fifteen years.
I suppose she discovered very soon that she had nothing in
common with that sailor, that stranger, fashioned and
marke.d by the sea of long voyages. In her strong-minded
way she had scorned pretences, had gone to her writing
which interested her immensely. A very praiseworthy
thing your sincere conduct if it didn't at times resem-
ble brutality so much. But I don't tbink it was compunc-
tion. That sentiment is rare in women. . . ."

"Is it?" I interrupted indignantly.

"You know more women than I do," retorted the un-
abashed Marlow. "You make it your business to know
them don't you? You go about a lot amongst all sorts
of people. You are a tolerably honest observer. Well,

THE TEA PARTY 167

just try to remember how many instances of compunction
you have seen. I am ready to take your bare word for it.
Compunction! Have you ever seen as much as its shadow?
Have you ever? Just a shadow a passing shadow! I
tell you it is so rare that you may call it non-existent.
They are too passionate. Too pedantic. Too courage-
ous with themselves- perhaps. No, I don't think for a
moment that Mrs. Fyne felt the slightest compunction at
her treatment of her sea-going brother. What he thought
of it who can tell? It is possible that he wondered why he
had been so insistently urged to come. It is possible that
he wondered bitterly or contemptuously or humbly.
And it may be that he was only surprised and bored. Had
he been as sincere in his conduct as his only sister he would
have probably taken himself off at the end of the second
day. But perhaps he was afraid of appearing brutal. I
am not far removed from the conviction that between the
sincerities of his sister and of his dear nieces, Captain
Anthony of the Fcrndale must have had his loneliness
brought home to his bosom for the first time of his life, at
an age, thirty-five or thereabouts, when one is mature
enough to feel the pang of such a discovery. Angry or
simply sad but certainly disillusioned he wanders about
and meets the girl one afternoon, and under the sway of
a strong feeling forgets his shyness. This is no supposi-
tion. It is a fact. There was such a meeting in which
the shyness must have perished before we don't know what
encouragement, or in the community of mood made ap-
parent by some casual word. You remember that Mrs.
Fyne saw them one afternoon coming back to the cottage
together. Don't you think that I have hit on the psychol-
ogy of the situation? . , ^ "

168 CHANCE

"Doubtless ..." I began to ponder.

"I was very certain of tny conclusions at the time,' 5
Marlow went on impatiently. "But don't think for a
moment that Mrs. Fyne in her new attitude and toying
thoughtfully with a teaspoon was about to surrender. She
murmured :

"It's the last thing I should have thought couldhappen."

"You didn't suppose they were romantic enough," I
suggested drily.

She let it pass and with great decision, but as if speak-
ing to herself,

"Roderick really must be warned."

She didn't give me the time to ask of what, precisely.
She raised her head and addressed me.

"I am surprised and grieved more than I can tell you
at Mr. Fyne's resistance. We have been always completely
at one on every question. And that we should differ now
on a point touching my brother so closely is a most painful
surprise to me." Her hand rattled the teaspoon brusquely
by an involuntary movement. "It is intolerable," she
added tempestuously for Mrs. Fyne, that is. I suppose
she had nerves of her own like any other woman.

Under the porch where Fyne had sought refuge with the
dog there was silence. I took it for a proof of deep sagac-
ity. I don't mean on the part of the dog. He was a
confirmed fool.

I said:

"You want absolutely to interfere . . . ?" Mrs.
Fyne nodded just perceptibly . . . "Well for my
part . . . but I don't really know how matters stand
at the present time. You have had a letter from Miss de
Barral. What does that letter say?"

THE TEA PARTY 169

"She asks for her valise to be sent to her town address,"
Mrs. Fyne uttered reluctantly and stopped. I waited a
bit then exploded.

"Well! What's the matter? Where's the difficulty?
Does your husband object to that? You don't mean to
say that he wants you to appropriate the girl's clothes?"

"Mr.Marlow!"

"Well, but you talk of a painful difference of opinion
with your husband, and then when I ask for information
on the point, you bring out a valise. And only a few
moments ago you reproached me for not being serious.
I wonder who is the serious person of us two, now."

She smiled faintly, and in a friendly tone, from which
I concluded at once that she did not mean to show me
the girl's letter, she said that undoubtedly the letter dis-
closed an understanding between Captain Anthony and
Flora de Barral.

"What understanding?" I pressed her. "An engage-
ment is an understanding."

"There is no engagement not yet," she said deci-
sively. "That letter, Mr. Marlow, is couched in very
vague terms. That is why "

I interrupted her without ceremony.

"You still hope to interfere to some purpose. Isn't
it so? Yes? But how should you have liked it if any-
body had tried to interfere between you and Mr. Fyne at
the time when your understanding with each other
could still have been described in vague terms?"

She had a genuine movement of astonished indignation.
It is with the accent of perfect sincerity that she cried
out to me.

"But it isn't at all the same thing! How can you!"

170 CHANCE

Indeed, how could I! The daughter of a poet and the
daughter of a convict are not comparable in the conse-
quences of their conduct if their necessity may wear at
times a similar aspect. Amongst these consequences I
could perceive undesirable cousins for these dear healthy
girls, and such like, possible, causes of embarrassment in
the future.

"No! You can't be serious," Mrs. Fync's smouldering
resentment broke out again. "You haven't thought "

"Oh, yes, Mrs. Fyne! I have thought. I am still
thinking. I am even trying to think like you."

"Mr. Marlow," she said earnestly. "Believe me that
I really am thinking of my brother in all this ..." I
assured her that I quite believed she was. For there is
no law of nature making it impossible to think of more
than one person at a time. Then I said:

"She has told him all about herself of course."

"All about her life," assented Mrs. Fyne with an air,
however, of making some mental reservation which I did
not pause to investigate. "Her life ! " I repeated. "That
girl must have had a mighty bad time of it."

"Horrible," Mrs. Fyne admitted with a ready frankness
very creditably under the circumstances, and a warmth of
tone which made me look at her with a friendly eye.
"Horrible! No! You can't imagine the sort of vulgar
people she became dependent on ... You know her
father never attempted to see her while he was still at large.
After his arrest he instructed that relative of his the
odious person who took her away from Brighton not
to let his daughter come to the court during the trial.
He refused to hold any communication with her what-
ever."

THE TEA PARTY 171

I remembered what Mrs. Fyne had told me before of
the view she had years ago of de Barral clinging to the
child at the side of his wife's grave, and later on these
two walking hand in hand the observed of all eyes
by the sea. Pictures from Dickens pregnant with
pathos.

CHAPTER SIX

FLORA

A7ERY singular prohibition," remarked Mrs*
Fyiie after a short silence. "He seemed to love
the child."

She was puzzled. But I surmised that it might have
been the sullenness of a man unconscious of guilt and
standing at bay to fight his "persecutors," as he called
them; or else the fear of a softer emotion weakening his
defiant attitude; perhaps, even, it was a self-denying
ordinance, in order to spare the girl the sight of her father
in the dock, accused of cheating, sentenced as a swindler
proving the possession of a certain moral delicacy.

Mrs. Fyne didn't know what to think. She supposed
it might have been mere callousness. But the people
amongst whom the girl had fallen had positively not a
grain of moral delicacy. Of that she was certain. Mrs.
Fyne could not undertake to give me an idea of their
abominable vulgarity. Flora used to tell her something
of her life in that household, over there, down Limehouse
way. It was incredible. It passed Mrs. Fyne's com-
prehension. It was a sort of moral savagery which she
could not have thought possible.

I, on the contrary, thought it very possible. I could
imagine easily how the poor girl must have been bewildered
and hurt at her reception in that household envied for
her past while delivered defenceless to the tender mercies

172

FLORA 175

of people without any fineness either of feeling or mind,
unable to understand her misery, grossly curious, mistak-
ing her manner for disdain, her silent shrinking for pride.
The wife of the "odious person" was witless and fatuously
conceited. Of the two girls of the house one was pious and
the other a romp; both were coarse-minded if they may
be credited with any mind at all. The rather numerous
men of the family were dense and grumpy, or dense and
jocose. None in that grubbing lot had enough humanity
to leave her alone. At first she was made much of, in an
offensively patronizing manner. The connection with the
great de Barral gratified their vanity even in the moment
of the smash. They dragged her to their place of worship,
whatever it might have been, where the congregation
stared at her, and they gave parties to other beings like
themselves at which they exhibited her with ignoble self-
satisfaction. She did not know how to defend herself
from their importunities, insolence and exigencies. She
lived amongst them, a passive victim, quivering in every
nerve, as if she were flayed. After the trial her position
became still worse. On the least occasion and even on no
occasions at all she was scolded, or else taunted with her
dependence. The pious girl lectured her on her defects,
the romping girl teased her with contemptuous references
to her accomplishments, and was always trying to pick
insensate quarrels with her about some "fellow" or other.
The mother backed up her girls invariably, adding her own
silly, wounding remarks. I must say they w r ere probably
not aware of the ugliness of their conduct. They were
nasty amongst themselves as a matter of course; their dis-
putes were nauseating in origin, in manner, in the spirit of
mean selfishness. These women, too, seemed to enjoy

174 CHANCE

greatly any sort of row, and were always ready to combine
together to make awful scenes to the luckless girl on incre-
dibly flimsy pretences. Thus Flora on one occasion had
been reduced to rage and despair, had her most secret feel-
ings lacerated, had obtained a view of the utmost baseness
to which common human nature can descend I won't
say a propos de bottes as the French would excellently put
it, but literally a propos of some mislaid cheap lace trim-
mings for a nightgown the romping one was making for
herself. Yes, that was the origin of one of the grossest
scenes which, in their repetition, must have had a deplora-
ble effect on the unformed character of one of the most
pitiful of de BarraFs victims. I have it from Mrs. Fyne.
The girl turned up at the Fynes' house at half -past nine on
a cold, drizzly evening. She had walked bareheaded, I
believe, just as she ran out of the house, from some-
where in Poplar to the neighbourhood of Sloane Square
without stopping, without drawing breath, if only for
a sob.

"We were having some people to dinner/ 5 said the
anxious sister of Captain Anthony.

She had heard the front door bell and wondered what it
might mean. The parlourmaid managed to whisper to
her without attracting attention. The servants had been
frightened by the invasion of that wild girl in a muddy
skirt and with wisps of damp hair sticking to her pale
cheeks. But they had seen her before. This was not the
first occasion, nor yet the last.

Directly she could slip away from her guests, Mrs. Fyne
ran upstairs.

"I found her in the night nursery crouching on the floor,
her head resting on the cot of the youngest of my girls.

FLORA 175

The eldest was sitting up in bed looking at her across the
room."

Only a night-light was burning there. Mrs. Fyne raised
her up, took her over to Mr. Fyne's little dressing-room on
the other side of the landing, to a fire by which she could
dry herself, and left her there. She had to go back to her
guests.

A most disagreeable surprise it must have been to the
Fynes. Afterward they both went up and interviewed
the girl. She jumped up at their entrance. She had
shaken her damp hair loose; her eyes were dry with the
heat of rage.

I can imagine little Fyne solemnly sympathetic, solemnly
listening, solemnly retreating to the marital bedroom.
Mrs. Fyne pacified the girl, and, fortunately, there was a
bed which could be made up for her in the dressing-room.

"But what could one do after all? " concludedMrs. Fyne.

And this stereotyped exclamation, expressing the diffi-
culty of the problem and the readiness (at any rate) of
good intentions, made me, as usual, feel more kindly
toward her.

Next morning, very early, long before Fyne had to start
for his office, the "odious personage" turned up, not
exactly unexpected, perhaps, but startling all the same,
if only by the promptness of his action. From what Flora
herself related to Mrs. Fyne, it seems that without being
very perceptibly less "odious" than his family he had
in a rather mysterious fashion interposed his authority for
the protection of the girl. " Not that he cares," exclaimed
Flora. "I am sure he does not. I could not stand being
liked by any of these people. If I thought he liked me I
would drown myself rather tha" go back with him/'

176 CHANCE

For, of course, he had come to take "Florrie" home.
The scene was the dining-room breakfast interrupted,
dishes growing cold, little Fyne's toast growing leathery,
Fyne out of his chair with his back to the fire, the news-
paper on the carpet, servants shut out, Mrs. Fyne rigid in her
place with the girl sitting beside her the "odious person,"
who had bustled in with hardly a greeting, looking from
Fyne to Mrs. Fyne as though he were inwardly amused at
something he knew of them; and then beginning ironically
his discourse. He did not apologize for disturbing Fyne
and his "good lady" at breakfast, because he knew they
did not want (with a nod at the girl) to have more of her
than could be 'helped. He came the first possible moment
because he had his business to attend to. He wasn't
drawing a tip-top salary (this staring at Fyne) in a luxuri-
ously carpeted office. Not he. He had risen to be an
employer of labour and was bound to give a good example.

I believe the fellow was aware of, and enjoyed quietly,
the consternation his presence brought to the bosom of Mr.
and Mrs. Fyne. He turned briskly to the girl. Mrs.
Fyne confessed to me that they had remained all three
silent and inanimate. He turned to the girl : " What's this
game, Florrie? You had better give it up. If you expect
me to run all over London looking for you every time you
happen to have a tiff with your auntie and cousins you are
mistaken. I can't afford it."

Tiff was the sort of definition to take one's breath
away, having regard to the fact that both the word convict
and the word pauper had been used a moment before
Flora de Barral ran away from the quarrel about the
lace trimmings. Yes, these very words ! So, at least, the
girl had told Mrs. Fyne the evening before. The word

FLORA 177

tiff in connection with her tale had a peculiar savour, a
paralyzing effect. Nobody made a sound. The relative
of de Barral proceeded uninterrupted to a display of
magnanimity. "Auntie told me to tell you she's sorry
there! And Amelia (the romping sister) shan't worry
you again. I'll see to that. You ought to be satisfied.
Remember your position."

Emboldened by the utter stillness pervading the room
he addressed himself to Mrs. Fyne with stolid effrontery:

"What I say is that people should be good-natured.
She can't stand being chaffed. She puts on her grand airs.
She won't take a bit of a joke from people as good as her-
self anyway. We are a plain lot. We don't like it. And
that's how trouble begins."

Insensible to the stony stare of three pairs of eyes, which,
if the stories of our childhood as to the power of the human
eye are true, ought to have been enough to daunt a tiger,
that unabashed manufacturer from the East End fastened
his fangs, figuratively speaking, into the poor girl and pre-
pared to drag her away for a prey to his cubs of both sexes.
"Auntie has thought of sending you your hat and coat.
I've got them outside in the cab."

Mrs. Fyne looked mechanically out of the window. A
four-wheeler stood before the gate under the weeping sky.
The driver in his conical cape and tarpaulin hat, streamed
with water. The drooping horse looked as though it had
been fished out, half unconscious, from a pond. Mrs.
Fyne found some relief in looking at that miserable sight,
away from the room in which the voice of the amiable
visitor resounded with a vulgar intonation exhorting the
strayed sheep to return to the delightful fold. "Come,
Florrie, make a move. I can't wait on you all day here/ 5

178 CHANCE

Mrs. Fyne heard all this without turning her head away
from the window. Fyne on the hearthrug had to listen
and to look on, too. I shall not try to form a surmise as to
the real nature of the suspense. Their very goodness
must have made it very anxious. The girl's hands were
lying in her lap; her head was lowered as if in deep thought;
and the other went on delivering a sort of homily. In-
gratitude was condemned in it, the sinfulness of pride was
pointed out together with the proverbial fact that it
"goes before a fall." There were also some sound remarks
as to the danger of nonsensical no lions and the disadvan-
tages of a quick temper. It sets one's best friends against
one. "And if anybody ever wanted friends in the world
it's you, my girl." Even respect for parental authority
was invoked. "In the first hour of his trouble your father
wrote to me to take care of you don't forget it. Yes,
to me, just a plain man, rather than to any of his fine West-
End friends. You can't get over that. And a father's a
father no matter what a mess he's got himself into. You
ain't going to throw over your own father are you?"

It was difficult to say whether he was more absurd than
cruel or more cruel than absurd. Mrs. Fyne, with the
fine ear of a woman, seemed to detect a jeering intention in
his meanly unctuous tone, something more vile than mere
cruelty. She glanced quickly over her shoulder and saw
the girl raise her two hands to her head, then let them fall
again on her lap. Fyne in front of the fire was like the
victim of an unholy spell bereft of motion and speech
but obviously in pain. It was a short pause of perfect
silence, and then that "odious creature" (he must have
been really a remarkable individual in his way) struck out
into sarcasm.

FLORA 179

"Well? , . . " Again a silence. "If you have
fixed it up with the lady and gentleman present here for
your board and lodging you had better say so. I don't
want to interfere in a bargain I know nothing of. But I
wonder how your father will take it when he comes out

. . . or don't you expect him ever to come out?"

At that moment, Mrs. Fyne told me she met the girl's
eyes. There was that in them which made her shut her
own. She also felt as though she would have liked to put
her fingers in her ears. She restrained herself, however;
and the "plain man" passed in his appalling versatility
from sarcasm to veiled menace.

"You have eh? Well and good. But before I go
home let me ask you, my girl, to think if by any chance
you throwing us over like this won't be rather bad for your
father later on? Just think it over."

He looked at his victim with an air of cunning mystery.
She jumped up so suddenly that he started back. Mrs.
Fyne, rose too, and even the spell was removed from her
husband. But the girl dropped back into the chair and
turned her head to look at Mrs. Fyne. This time it was
no accidental meeting of fugitive glances. It was a delib-
erate communication. To my question as to its nature
Mrs. Fyne said she did not know. "Was it appealing?"
I suggested. "No," she said. " Was it frightened, angry,
crushed, resigned?" "No! No! Nothing of these."
But it had frightened her. She remembered it to this
day. She had been ever since fancying she could detect
the lingering reflection of that look in all the girl's glances.
In the attentive, in the casual even in the grateful
glances in the expression of the softest moods.

"Has she her soft moods then?" I asked with interest.

180 CHANCE

Mrs. Fyne, much moved by her recollections, heeded not
my inquiry. All her mental energy was concentrated on
the nature of that memorable glance. The general tradi-
tion of mankind teaches us that glances occupy a consider-
able place in the self-expression of women. Mrs. Fyne
was trying honestly to give me some idea, as much, perhaps,
to satisfy her own uneasiness as my curiosity. She was
frowning in the effort as you see sometimes a child do
(what is delightful in women is that they so often resemble
intelligent children I mean the crustiest, the sourest,
the most battered of them do at times) . She was
frowning, I say, and I was beginning to smile faintly at her
when all at once she came out with something totally un-
expected.

"It was horribly merry," she said.

I suppose she must have been satisfied by my sudden
gravity because she looked at me in a friendly manner.

"Yes, Mrs. Fyne," I said, smiling no longer. "I see.
It would have been horrible even on the stage."

"Ah!" she interrupted me- and I really believe her
change of attitude back to folded arms was meant to
check a shudder. "But it wasn't on the stage, and it was
not with her lips that she laughed."

"Yes. It must have been horrible," I assented. "And
then she had to go away ultimately I suppose. You
didn't say anything? "

"No," said Mrs. Fyne. "I rang the bell and told one
of the maids to go and bring the hat and coat out of the
cab. And then we waited."

I don't think that there ever was such waiting unless
possibly in a jail at some moment or other on the morning
of an execution. The servant appeared with the hat and

FLORA 181

coat, and then, still as on the morning of an execution,
when the condemned, I believe, is offered a breakfast, Mrs.
Fyne, anxious that the white-faced girl should swallow
something warm (if she could) before leaving her house for
an interminable drive through raw, cold air in a damp
four-wheeler Mrs. Fyne broke the awful silence :
"You really must try to eat something." In her best
resolute manner. She turned to the "odious person"
with the same determination. "Perhaps you will sit down
and have a cup of coffee, too?"

The worthy "employer of labour" sat down. He might
have been awed by Mrs. Fyne's peremptory manner for
she did not think of conciliating him then. He sat down,
provisionally, like a man who finds himself much against
his will in doubtful company. He accepted ungraciously
the cup handed to him by Mrs. Fyne, took an unwilling
sip or two and put it down as if there were some moral
contamination in the coffee of these "swells." Between
whiles he directed mysteriously inexpressive glances at
little Fyne, who, I gather, had no breakfast that morning
at all. Neither had the girl. She never moved her
hands from her lap till her appointed guardian got up,
leaving his cup half full.

"Well. If you don't mean to take advantage of this
lady's kind offer I may just as well take you home at once.
I want to begin my day I do."

After a few more dumb, leaden-footed minutes while
Flora was putting on her hat and jacket, the Fynes without
moving, without saying anything, saw these two leave the
room.

"She never looked back at us," said Mrs. Fyne. "She
just followed him out. I've never had such a crushing

182 CHANCE

impression of the miserable dependence of girls of
women. This was an extreme case. But a young man
any man could have gone to break stones on the roads
or something of that kind or enlisted or . . . "

It was very true. Women can't go forth on the high-
roads and byways to pick up a living even when dignity,
independence, or existence itself is at stake. But what
made me interrupt Mrs. Fyne's tirade was my profound
surprise at the fact of that respectable citizen being so
willing to keep in his home the poor girl for whom it
seemed there was no place in the world. And not only
willing but anxious. I couldn't credit him with generous
impulses. For it seemed obvious to me from what I had
learned that, to put it mildly, he was not an impulsive
person.

"I confess that I can't understand his motive," I
exclaimed.

"This is exactly what John wondered at, at first," said
Mrs. Fyne. By that time an intimacy if not exactly
confidence had sprung up between us which permitted
her in this discussion to refer to her husband as John.
"You know he had not opened his lips all that time,"
she pursued. "I don't blame his restraint. On the
contrary. What could he have said? I could see he
was observing the man very thoughtfully."

"And so, Mr. Fyne listened, observed, and meditated/*
I said. "That's an excellent way of coming to a conclu-
sion. And may I ask at what conclusion he had managed
to arrive? On what ground did he cease to wonder at the
inexplicable? For I can't admit humanity to be the ex-
planation. It would be too monstrous."

It was nothing of the sort, Mrs. Fyne assured me with

FLORA 183

some resentment, as though I had aspersed little Fyne's
sanity. Fyne very sensibly had set himself the mental
task of discovering the self-interest. I should not have
thought him capable of so much cynicism. He said to
himself that for people of that sort (religious fears or the
vanity of righteousness put aside) money not great
wealth, but money, just a little money is the measure
of virtue, of expediency, of wisdom of pretty well every-
thing. But the girl was absolutely destitute. The father
was in prison after the most terribly complete and disgrace-
ful smash of modern times. And then it dawned upon
Fyne that this was just it. The great smash, in the great
dust of vanishing millions! Was it possible that they all
had vanished to the last penny? Wasn't there, somewhere,
something palpable; some fragment of the fabric left?

"That's it," had exclaimed Fyne, startling his wife
by this explosive unsealing of his lips less than half an
hour after the departure of de Barral's cousin with de
BarraFs daughter. It was still in the dining-room, very
near the time for him to go forth affronting the elements
in order to put in another day's work in his country's
service. All he could say at the moment in elucidation
of this breakdown from his usual placid solemnity was :

"The fellow imagines that de Barral has got some
plunder put away somewhere/ 5

This being the theory arrived at by Fyne, his comment
on it was that a good many bankrupts had been known
to have taken such a precaution. It was possible in de
Barral's case. Fyne went so far in his display of cynical
pessimism as to say that it was extremely probable.

He explained at length to Mrs. Fyne that de Barral
certainly did not take any one into his confidence. But

184 CHANCE

the beastly relative had made up his low mind that it was
so. He was selfish and pitiless in his stupidity, but he
had clearly conceived the notion of making a claim on
de Barral when de Barral came out of prison on the
strength of having "looked after " (as he would have
himself expressed it) his daughter. He nursed his hopes,
such as they were, in secret, and it is to be supposed kept
them even from his wife.

I could see it very well. That belief accounted for his
mysterious air while he interfered in favour of the girl.
He was the only protector she had. It was as though
Flora had been fated to be always surrounded by treachery
and lies stifling every better impulse, every instinctive
aspiration of her soul to trust and to love. It would have
been enough to drive a fine nature into the madness of
universal suspicion into any sort of madness. I don't
know how far a sense of humour will stand by one. To
the foot of the gallows, perhaps. But from my recollec-
tion of Flora de Barral I feared that she hadn't much
sense of humour. She had cried at the desertion of the
absurd Fyne dog. That animal was certainly free from
duplicity. He was frank and simple and ridiculous. The
indignation of the girl at his unhypocritical behaviour had
been funny but not humorous.

As you may imagine I was not very anxious to resume
the discussion on the justice, expediency, effectiveness, or
what not, of Fyne's journey to London. It isn't that I
was unfaithful to little Fyne out in the porch with the
dog. (They kept amazingly quiet there. Could they
have gone to sleep?) What I felt was that either my
sagacity or my conscience would come out damaged from
that campaign. And no man will willingly put himself

FLORA 185

in the way of moral damage. I did not want a war with
Mrs. Fyne. I much preferred to hear something more of
the girl. I said:

"And so she went away with that respectable ruffian?"
Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders slightly "What else
could she have done?" I agreed with her by another
hopeless gesture. It isn't so easy for a girl like Flora de
Barral to become a factory hand, a pathetic seamstress,
or even a barmaid. She wouldn't have known how to
begin. She was the captive of the meanest conceivable
fate. And she wasn't mean enough for it. It is to be
remarked that a good many people are born curiously
unfitted for the fate awaiting them on this earth. As I
don't want you to think that I am unduly partial to the
girl we shall say that she failed decidedly to endear herself
to that simple, virtuous, and, I believe, teetotal household.
It's my conviction that an angel would have failed like-
wise. It's no use going into details; suffice it to state
that before the year was out she was again at the Fynes*
door.

This time she was escorted by a stout youth. His large,
pale face wore a smile of inane cunning soured by annoy-
ance. His clothes were new and the indescribable smart-
ness of their cut, a genre which had never been obtruded
on her notice before, astonished Mrs. Fyne, who came out
into the hall with her hat on; for she was about to go out
to hear a new pianist (a girl) in a friend's house. The
youth addressing Mrs. Fyne easily begged her not to let
"that silly thing go back to us any more/' There had
been, he said, nothing but "ructions" at home about her
for the last three weeks. Everybody in the family was
heartily sick of quarrelling. His governor had charged

186 CHANCE

him to bring her to this address and say that the lady
and gentleman were quite welcome to all there was in it.
She hadn't enough sense to appreciate a plain, honest,
English home and she was better out of it.

The young, pimply faced fellow was vexed by this job
his governor had sprung on him. It was the cause of his
missing an appointment for that afternoon with a certain
young lady. The lady he was engaged to. But he meant
to dash back and try for a sight of her that evening yet
" if he were to burst over it." " Good-bye, Florrie. Good
luck to you and I hope I'll never see your face again."

With that he ran out in lover-like haste, leaving the
hall door wide open. Mrs. Fyne had not found a word to
say. She had been too much taken aback even to gasp
freely. But she had the presence of mind to grab the
girl's arm just as she, too, was running out into the street
with the haste, I suppose, of despair and to keep I don't
know what tragic tryst.

"You stopped her with your own hand, Mrs. Fyne," I
said. "I presume she meant to get away. That girl is
no comedian if I am any judge."

"Yes! I had to use some force to drag her in."

Mrs. Fyne had no difficulty in stating the truth. "You
see I was in the very act of letting myself out when these
two appeared. So that when that unpleasant young man
ran off, I found myself alone with Flora. It was all I
could do to hold her in the hall while I called to the ser-
vants to come and shut the door."

As is my habit, or my weakness, or my gift, I don't
know which, I visualized the story for myself. I really
can't help it. And the vision of Mrs. Fyne dressed for a
rather special afternoon function, engaged in wrestling

FLORA 187

with a wild-eyed, white-faced girl had a certain dramatic
fascination.

"Really!" I murmured.

"Oh! There's no doubt that she struggled," said Mrs.
Fyne. She compressed her lips for a moment and then
added: "As to her being a comedian, that's another
question."

Mrs. Fyne had returned to her attitude of folded arms.
I saw before me the daughter of the refined poet accepting
life whole with its unavoidable conditions of which one
of the first is the instinct of self-preservation and the
egoism of every living creature. "The fact remains,
nevertheless, that you yourself have in your own
words, pulled her in," I insisted in a jocular tone, with a
serious intention.

"What was one to do?" exclaimed Mrs. Fyne with al-
most comic exasperation. "Are you reproaching me with
being too impulsive?"

And she went on telling me that she was not that in
the least. One of the recommendations she always in-
sisted on (to the girl-friends, I imagine) was to be on guard
against impulse. Always! But I had not been there to
see the face of Flora at the time. If I had it would be
haunting me to this day. Nobody unless made of iron
would have allowed a human being with a face like that
to rush out alone into the streets.

"And doesn't it haunt you, Mrs. Fyne? " I asked.

"No, not now," she said implacably. "Perhaps if I
had let her go it might have done. . . . Don't con-
clude, though, that I think she was playing a comedy then,
because after struggling at first she ended by remaining.
She gave up very suddenly. She collapsed in our arms,

188 CHANCE

mine and the maid's who came running up in response to
my calls, and . . . "

"And the door was then shut," I completed the phrase
in my own way,

"Yes, the door was shut," Mrs. Fyne lowered and raised
her head slowly.

I did not ask her for details. Of one thing I am certain,
and that is that Mrs. Fyne did not go out to the musical
function that afternoon. She was no doubt considerably
annoyed at missing the privilege of hearing privately an
interesting young pianist (a girl) who, since, had become
one of the recognized performers. Mrs. Fyne did not dare
leave her house. As to the feelings of little Fyne when he
came home from the office, via his club, just half an hour
before dinner, I have no information. But I venture to
affirm that in the main they were kindly, though it is quite
possible that in the first moment of surprise he had to keep
down a swear-word or two.

The long and short of it all is that next day the Fynes
made up their minds to take into their confidence a certain
wealthy old lady. With certain old ladies the passing
years bring back a sort of mellowed youthf ulness of feeling,
an optimistic outlook, liking for novelty, readiness for ex-
periment. The old lady was very much interested : "Do
let me see the poor thing!" She was accordingly allowed
to see Flora de Barral in Mrs. Fyne's drawing-room on a
day when there was no one else there, and she preached to
her with charming, sympathetic authority: "The only
way to deal with our troubles, my dear child, is to forget
them. You must forget yours. It's very simple. Look
at me. I always forget mine. At your age one ought to
be cheerful,"

FLORA 189

Later on when left alone with Mrs. Fyne she said to that
lady : " I do hope the child will manage to be cheerful. I
can't have sad faces near me. At my age one needs cheer-
ful companions."

And in this hope she carried off Flora de Barral to
Bournemouth for the winter months in the quality of reader
and companion. She had said to her with kindly jocu-
larity : "We shall have a good time together. I am not a
grumpy old woman." But on their return to London she
sought Mrs. Fyne at once. She had discovered that Flora
was not naturally cheerful. When she made efforts to be
it was still worse. The old lady couldn't stand the strain
of that. And then, to have the whole thing out, she could
not bear to have for a companion any one who did not love
her. She was certain that Flora did not love her. Why?
She couldn't say. Moreover, she had caught the girl
looking at her in a peculiar way at times. Oh, no! it
was not an evil look it was an unusual expression which
one could not understand. And when one remembered
that her father was in prison shut up together with a lot of
criminals and so on it made one uncomfortable. If the
child had only tried to forget her troubles! But she
obviously was incapable or unwilling to do so. And that
was somewhat perverse wasn't it? Upon the whole,
she thought it would be better perhaps ..."

Mrs. Fyne assented hurriedly to the unspoken conclu-
sion: "Oh, certainly! Certainly," wondering to herself
what was to be done with Flora next; but she was not very
much surprised at the change in the old lady's view of
Flora de Barral. She almost understood it.

What came next was a German family, the continental
acquaintances of the wife of one of Fyne's colleagues in the

190 CHANCE

Home Office. Flora of the enigmatical glances was dis-
patched to them without much reflection. As it was not
considered absolutely necessary to take them into full
confidence, they neither expected the girl to be specially
cheerful nor were they discomposed unduly by the in-
describable quality of her glances. The German woman
was quite ordinary; there were two boys to look after;
they were ordinary, too, I presume; and Flora, I under-
stand, was very attentive to them. If she taught them
anything it must have been by inspiration alone, for she
certainly knew nothing of teaching. But it was mostly
"conversation" which was demanded from her. Flora de
Barral conversing with two small German boys, regularly,
industriously, conscientiously, in order to keep herself
alive in the world which held for her the past we know and
the future of an even more undesirable quality seems to
me a very fantastic combination. But I believe it was not
so bad. She was being, she wrote, mercifully drugged by
her task. She had learned to "converse" all day long,
mechanically, absently, as if in a trance. An uneasy
trance it must have been ! Her worst moments were when
off duty alone in the evening, shut up in her own little
room, her dulled thoughts waking up slowly till she started
into the full consciousness of her position, like a person
waking up in contact with something venomous a snake,
for instance experiencing a mad impulse to fling the thing
away and run off screaming to hide somewhere.

At this period of her existence Flora de Barral used to
write to Mrs. Fyne not regularly but fairly often. I don't
know how long she would have gone on "conversing" and,
incidentally, helping to supervise the beautifully stocked
linen closets of that well-to-do German household, if the

FLORA 191

man of it had not developed in the intervals of his avoca-
tions (he was a merchant and a thoroughly domesticated
character) a psychological resemblance to the Bourne-
mouth old lady. It appeared that he, too, wanted to be
loved.

He was not, however, of a conquering temperament
kiss-snatching, door-bursting type of libertine. In the
very act of straying from the path of virtue he remained a
respectable merchant. It would have been perhaps better
for Flora if he had been a mere brute. But he set about
his sinister enterprise in a sentimental, cautious, almost
paternal manner; and thought he would be safe with a
pretty orphan. The girl for all her experience was still
too innocent, and indeed not yet sufficiently aware of her-
self as a woman, to mistrust these masked approaches.
She did not see them, in fact. She thought him sympa-
thetic the first expressively sympathetic person she had
ever met. She was so innocent that she could not under-
stand the fury of the German woman. For, as you may
imagine, the wifely penetration was not to be deceived for
any great length of time the more so that the wife was
older than the husband. The man with the peculiar
cowardice of respectability never said a word in Flora's
defence. He stood by and heard her reviled in the most
abusive terms, only nodding and frowning vaguely from
time to time. It will give you the idea of the girl's inno-
cence when I say that at first she actually thought this
storm of indignant reproaches was caused by the discovery
of her real name and her relation to a convict. She had
been sent out under an assumed name a highly recom-
mended orphan of honourable parentage. Her distress,
her burning cheeks, her attempts to express her regret for

192 CHANCE

this deception were taken for a confession of guilt. "You
attempted to bring dishonour to my home," the German
woman screamed at her.

Here's a misunderstanding for you. Flora de Barral,
who felt the shame but did not believe in the guilt of her
father, retorted fiercely: "Nevertheless, I am as honour-
able as you are." And then the German woman nearly
went into a fit from rage. "I shall have you thrown out
into the street."

Flora was not exactly thrown out into the street, I
believe, but she was bundled bag and baggage on board a
steamer for London. Did I tell you these people lived in
Hamburg? Well, yes sent to the docks late on a rainy
winter evening in charge of some sneering lackey or other
who behaved to her insolently and left her on deck burning
with indignation, her hair half down, shaking with excite-
ment and, truth to say, scared as near as possible into
hysterics. If it had not been for the stewardess, who,
without asking questions, good soul, took charge of her
quietly in the ladies' saloon (luckily it was empty), it is by
no means certain she would ever have reached England. I
can't tell if a straw ever saved a drowning man, but I know
that a mere glance is enough to make despair pause. For
in truth we who are creatures of impulse are not creatures
of despair. Suicide, I suspect, is very often the outcome
of mere mental weariness not an act of savage energy
but the final symptom of complete collapse. The quiet,
matter-of-fact attentions of a ship's stewardess, who did
not seem aware of other human agonies than seasickness,
who talked of the probable weather of the passage it
would be a rough night, she thought and who insisted
in a professionally busy manner, "Let me make you com-

FLORA 193

fortable down below at once, miss," as though she were
thinking of nothing else but her tip was enough to
dissipate the shades of death gathering round the mortal
weariness of bewildered thinking which makes the idea of
non-existence welcome so often to the young. Flora de
Barral did lie down, and it may be presumed she slept.
At any rate she survived the voyage across the North Sea
and told Mrs. Fyne all about it, concealing nothing and
receiving no rebuke for Mrs. Fyne's opinions had a
large freedom in their pedantry. She held, I suppose, that
a woman holds an absolute right or possesses a perfect
excuse to escape in her own way from a man-mis-
managed world.

What is to be noted is that even in London, having
had time to take a reflective view, poor Flora was far from
being certain as to the true inwardness of her violent dis-
missal. She felt the humiliation of it with an almost
maddened resentment.

"And did you enlighten her on the point?" I ventured
to ask.

Mrs. Fyne moved her shoulders with a philosophical
acceptance of all the necessities which ought not to be.
Something had to be said, she murmured. She had told
the girl enough to make her come to the right conclusion
by herself.

"And she did?"

"Yes. Of course. She isn't a goose," retorted Mrs.
Fyne tartly.

"Then her education is completed," I remarked with
some bitterness. "Don't you think she ought to be given
a chance?"

194 CHANCE

Mrs. Fyne understood my meaning.

"Not this one," she snapped in a quite feminine way.
"It's all very well for you to plead, but I "

"I do not plead. I simply asked. It seemed natural!
to ask what you thought."

"It's what I feel that matters. And I can't help my
feelings. You may guess," she added in a softer tone,
"that my feelings are mostly concerned with my brother.
We were very fond of each other. The difference of our
ages was not very great. I suppose you know he is a little
younger than I am. He was a sensitive boy. He had the
habit of brooding. It is no use concealing from you that
neither of u3 was happy at home. You have heard, no
doubt. . . . Yes? Well, I was made still more un-
happy and hurt I don't mind telling you that. He
made his way to some distant relations of our mother's
people who I believe were not known to my father at all.
I don't wish to judge their action."

I interrupted Mrs. Fyne here. I had heard. Fyne was
not very communicative in general, but he was proud of
Iiis father-in-law " Carleon Anthony, the poet, you
know." Proud of his celebrity without approving of his
character. It was on that account, I strongly suspect,
that he seized with avidity upon the theory of poetical
genius being allied to madness, which he got hold of in
some idiotic book everybody was reading a few years ago.
It struck him as being truth itself illuminating like the
sun. He adopted it devoutly. He bored me with it
sometimes. Once, just to shut him up, I asked quietly if
this theory which he regarded as so incontrovertible did
not cause him some uneasiness about his wife and the dear
girls? He transfixed me with a pitying stare and requested

FLORA 195

me in his deep solemn voice to remember the "well-estab-
lished fact" that genius was not transmissible.

I said only "Oh! Isn't it?" and he thought he had
silenced me by an unanswerable argument. But he con-
tinued to talk of his glorious father-in-law, and it was in
the course of that conversation that he told me how, when
the Liverpool relations of the poet's late wife naturally
addressed themselves to him in considerable concern, sug-
gesting a friendly consultation as to the boy's future, the
incensed (but always refined) poet wrote in answer a letter
of mere polished badinage which offended mortally the
Liverpool people. This witty outbreak of what was in
fact mortification and rage appeared to them so heartless
that they simply kept the boy. They let him go to sea not
because he was in their way but because he begged hard to
be allowed to go.

"Oh! You do know," said Mrs. Fyne after a pause.
"Well I felt myself very much abandoned. Then his
choice of life so extraordinary, so unfortunate, I may
say. I was very much grieved. I should have liked him
to have been distinguished or at any rate to remain in
the social sphere where we could have had common inter-
ests, acquaintances, thoughts. Don't think that I am
estranged from him. But the precise truth is that I do
not know him. I was most painfully affected when he
was here by the difficulty of finding a single topic we could
discuss together."

While Mrs. Fyne was talking of her brother I let niy
thoughts wander out of the room to little Fyne, who by
leaving me alone with his wife, had, so to speak, entrusted
his domestic peace to my honour.

"Well, then, Mrs. Fyne, does it not strike you that it

196 CHANCE

would be reasonable under the circumstances to let your
brother take care of himself?"

"And suppose I have grounds to think that he can't take
care of himself in a given instance." She hesitated in a
funny, bashful manner which roused my interest. Then :
"Sailors, I believe, are very susceptible," she added with
forced assurance.

I burst into a laugh which only increased the coldness
of her observing stare.

"They are. Immensely! Hopelessly! My dear Mrs.
Fyne, you had better give it up! It only makes your
husband miserable."

"And I am quite miserable, too. It is really our first
difference. . . ."

"Regarding Miss de Barral?" I asked.

"Regarding everything. It's really intolerable that
this girl should be the occasion. I think he really ought to
give way."

She turned her chair round a little and picking up the
book I had been reading in the morning began to turn the
leaves absently.

Her eyes being off me, I felt I could allow myself to
leave the room. Its atmosphere had become hopeless for
little Fyne's domestic peace. You may smile. But to the
solemn all things are solemn. I had enough sagacity to
understand that.

I slipped out into the porch. The dog was slumbering
at Fyne's feet. The muscular little man leaning on his
elbow and gazing over the fields presented a forlorn figure.
He turned his head quickly,, but seeing I was alone, re-
lapsed into his moody contemplation of the green land"
scape,

FLORA

I said loudly and distinctly: "I've come out to smoke a
cigarette/' and sat down near him on the little bench.
Then lowering my voice: "Tolerance is an extremely
difficult virtue,'' I said. "More difficult for some than
heroism. More difficult than compassion/'

I avoided looking at him. I knew well enough that he
would not like this opening. General ideas were not to
his taste. He mistrusted them. I lighted a cigarette,
not that I wanted to smoke, but to give another moment
to the consideration of the advice the diplomatic advice
I had made up my mind to bowl him over with. And I
continued in subdued tones:

"I have been led to make these remarks by what I have
discovered since you left us. I suspected from the first.
And now I am certain. What your wife cannot tolerate
in this affair is Miss de Barral being what she is."

He made a movement, but I kept my eyes away from
him and went on steadily. "That is her being a woman.
I have some idea of Mrs. Fyne's mental attitude toward
society with its injustices, with its atrocious or ridiculous
conventions. As against them there is no audacity of
action your wife's mind refuses to sanction. The doc-
trine which I imagine she stuffs into the pretty heads of
your girl-guests is almost vengeful. A sort of moral fire-
and-sword doctrine. How far the lesson is wise is not for
me to say. I don't permit myself to judge. I seem to see
her very delightful disciples singeing themselves with the
torches, and cutting their fingers with the swords of Mrs.
Fyne's furnishing."

"My wife holds her opinions very seriously," murmured
Fyne suddenly.

" Yes. No doubt," I assented in a low voice as before.

198 CHANCE

"But it is a mere intellectual exercise. What I see is that
in dealing with reality Mrs. Fyne ceases to be tolerant. In
other words, that she can't forgive Miss de Barral for being
a woman and behaving like a woman. And yet this is not
only reasonable and natural, but it is her only chance. A
woman against the world has no resources but in herself,,
Her only means of action is to be what she is. You under-
stand what I mean."

Fyne mumbled between his teeth that he understood*
But he did not seem interested. What he expected of
me was to extricate him from a difficult situation. I don't
know how far credible this may sound, to less solemn
married couples, but to remain at variance with his wife
seemed to him a considerable incident. Almost a disaster.

"It looks as though I didn't care what happened to her
brother," he said. "And after all if anything. . . . "

I became a little impatient but without raising my tone:
"What thing?" I asked. "The liability to get penal ser-
vitude is so far like genius that it isn't hereditary. And
what else can be objected to the girl? All the energy of
her deeper feelings, which she would use up vainly in the
danger and fatigue of a struggle with society, maybe turned
into devoted attachment to the man who offers her a way
of escape from what can be only a life of moral anguish.
I don't mention the physical difficulties."

Glancing at Fyne out of the corner of one eye I discov-
ered that he was attentive. He made the remark that I
should have said all this to his wife. It was a sensible
enough remark. But I had given Mrs. Fyne up. I asked
him if his impression was that his wife meant to entrust
him with a letter for her brother?

No. He didn't think so. There were certain reasons

FLORA 199

which made Mrs. Fyne unwilling to commit her arguments
to paper. Fyne was to be primed with them. But he had
no doubt that if lie persisted in his refusal she would make
up her mind to write.

"She does not wish me to go unless with a full convic-
tion that she is right," said Fyne solemnly.

"She's very exacting/' I commented. And then I re-
flected that she was used to it. "Would nothing less do
for once?"

"You don't mean that I should give way do you?"
asked Fyne in a whisper of alarmed suspicion.

As this was exactly what I meant, I let his fright sink
into him. He fidgetted. If the word may be used of co
solemn a personage, he wriggled. And when the horrid
suspicion had descended into his very heels, so to speak,
he became very still. lie sat gazing stonily into space
bounded by the yellow, burnt-up slopes of the rising
ground a couple of miles away. The face of the down
showed the white scar of the quarry where not more than
sixteen hours before Fyne and I had been groping in the
dark with horrible apprehension of finding under our hands
the shattered body of a girl. For myself I had in addition
the memory of my meeting with her. She was certainly
walking very near the edge courting a sinister solution.
But, now, having by the most unexpected chance come
upon a man, she had found another way to escape from
the world. Such world as was open to her without
shelter, without bread, without honour. The best she
could have found in it would have been a precarious dole
of pity diminishing as her years increased. The appeal
of the abandoned child, Flora, to the sympathies of the
Fynes hr^l been irresistible, But now she had become a

00 CHANCE

woman, and Mrs. Fyne was presenting an implacable front
to a particularly feminine transaction. I may say tri-
umphantly feminine. It is true that Mrs. Fyne did not
want women to be women. Her theory was that they
should turn themselves into unscrupulous sexless nuisances.
An offended theorist dwelt in her bosom somewhere. In
what way she expected Flora de Barral to set about saving
herself from a most miserable existence I can't conceive;
but I verily believe that she would have found it easier
to forgive the girl an actual crime; say the rifling of the
Bournemouth old lady's desk, for instance. And then
for Mrs. Fyne was very much of a woman herself her
sense of proprietorship was very strong within her; and
though she had not much use for her brother, yet she did
not like to see him annexed by another woman. By a chit
of a girl. And such a girl, too. Nothing is truer than that,
in this world, the luckless have no right to their opportuni-
ties as if misfortune were a legal disqualification.
Fyne's sentiments (as they naturally would be in a man)
had more stability. A good deal of his sympathy survived.
Indeed I heard him murmur "Ghastly nuisance," but I
knew it was of the integrity of his domestic accord that he
was thinking. With my eyes on the dog lying curled up
in sleep in the middle of the porch I suggested in a subdued
impersonal tone: "Yes. Why not let yourself be per-
suaded?"

I never saw little Fyne less solemn. He hissed through
his teeth in unexpectedly figurative style that it would
take a lot to persuade him to " push under the head
of a poor devil of a girl quite sufficiently plucky" and
snorted. He was still gazing at the distant quarry, and I
think he was affected by that sight. I assured him that I

FLORA 201

was far from advising him to do anything so cruel. I ana
convinced he had always doubted the soundness of my
principles, because he turned on me swiftly as though
he had been on the watch for a lapse from the straight
path.

" Then what do you mean ? That I should pretend ! "

" No ! What nonsense ! It would be immoral. I may,
however, tell you that if I had to make a choice I would
rather do something immoral than something cruel.
What I meant was that, not believing in the efficacy of
the interference, the whole question is reduced to your con-
senting to do what your wife wishes you to do. That
would be acting like a gentleman, surely. And acting
unselfishly, too, because I can very well understand how
distasteful it may be to you. Generally speaking, an un-
selfish action is a moral action. I'll tell you what. I'll
go with you. . . ."

He turned round and stared at me with surprise and
suspicion. "You would go with me? " he repeated.

"You don't understand," I said, amused at the incredu-
lous disgust of his tone. "I must run up to town to-
morrow morning. We will go together. You have a
set of travelling chessmen?"

His physiognomy, contracted by a variety of emotions,
relaxed to a certain extent at the idea of a game. I told
him that as I had business at the docks he should have my
company to the very ship.

"We shall beguile the way to the wilds of the East by
improving conversation," I encouraged him.

"My brother-in-law is staying at a hotel the Eastern
Hotel," he said, becoming sombre again. "I haven't the
slightest idea where it is."

802 CHANCE

9 "I know the place. I shall leave you at the door with
the comfortable conviction that you are doing what's
right since it pleases a lady and cannot do any harm to any-
body whatever/*

"You think so? No harm to anybody?" he repeated
doubtfully.

"I assure you it's not the slightest use," I said with
all possible emphasis, which seemed only to increase the
solemn discontent of his expression.

"But in order that my going should be a perfectly candid
proceeding I must first convince my wife that it isn't the
slightest use, 5 ' he objected portentously.

"Oh, you casuist!" I said. And I said nothing more
because at that moment Mrs. Fyne stepped out on to the
porch. We rose together at her appearance. Her clear,
colourless, unflinching glance enveloped us both critically.
I sustained the chill smilingly, but Fyne stooped at once to
release the dog. He was some time about it; then simul-
taneously with his recovery of upright position the animal
passed at one bound from profoundest slumber into most
tumultuous activity. Enveloped in the tornado of his
inane scurryings and barkings I took Mrs. Fyne's hand
extended to me woodenly and bowed over it with defer-
ence. She walked down the path without a word; Fyne
had preceded her and was waiting by the open gate. They
passed out and walked up the road surrounded by a low
cloud of dust raised by the dog gyrating madly about their
two figures progressing side by side with rectitude and pro-
priety, and (I don't know why) looking to me as if they had
annexed the whole countryside. Perhaps it was that they
had impressed me somehow with the sense of their superi-
ority. What superiority? Perhaps it consisted just in

FLORA 203

their limitations. It was obvious that neither of them had
carried away a high opinion of me. But what affected
me most was the indifference of the Fyne dog. He used to
precipitate himself at full speed and with a frightful final
upward spring upon my waistcoat, at least once at each of
our meetings. He had neglected that ceremony this time
notwithstanding my correct and even conventional con-
duct in offering him a cake; it seemed to me symbolic of
final separation from the Fyne household. And I remem-
bered against him how on a certain day he had abandoned
poor Flora de Barral who was morbidly sensitive.

I sat down in the porch and, maybe inspired by secret
antagonism to the Fynes, I said to myself deliberately that
Captain Anthony must be a fine fellow. Yet on the facts
as I knew them he might have been a dangerous trifler or a
downright scoundrel. He had made a miserable, hopeless
girl follow him clandestinely to London. It is true that
the girl had written since, only Mrs. Fyne had been remark-
ably vague as to the contents. They were unsatisfactory.
They did not positively announce imminent nuptials as
far as I could make it out from her rather mysterious hints.
But then her inexperience might have led her astray.
There was no fathoming the innocence of a woman like
Mrs. Fyne, who, venturing as far as possible in theory,
would know nothing of the real aspect of things. It would
have been comic if she were making all this fuss for nothing.
But Trcjcctodthissuspicionforthehonourof human nature.

I imagined to myself Captain Anthony as simple and
romantic. It was much more pleasant. Genius is not
hereditary, but temperament may be. And he was the
son of a poet with an admirable gift of individualizing,
of etherealizing the commonplace; of making touching,

204 CHANCE

delicate, fascinating the most hopeless commonplaces of
the so-called refined existence.

What I could not understand was Mrs. Fyne's dog-in-
the-manger attitude. Sentimentally she needed that
brother of hers so little! What could it matter to her
one way or another setting aside common humanity
which would suggest at least a neutral attitude. Unless
indeed it was the blind working of the law that in our
world of chances the luckless must be put in the wrong
somehow.

And musing thus on the general inclination of our
instincts toward injustice I met unexpectedly, at the
turn of the road, as it were, a shape of duplicity. It
might have been unconscious on Mrs. Fyne's part, but
her leading idea appeared to me to be not to keep, not
to preserve her brother, but to get rid of him definitely.
She did not hope to stop anything. She had too much
sense for that. Almost any one out of an idiot asylum
would have had enough sense for that. She wanted
the protest to be made, emphatically, with Fyne's fullest
concurrence in order to make all intercourse for the future
impossible. Such an action would estrange the pair for-
ever from the Fynes. She understood her brother and the
girl, too. Happy together, they would never forgive that
outspoken hostility and should the marriage turn out
badly. . . . Well, it would be just the same.
Neither of them would be likely to bring their troubles
to such a good prophet of evil.

Yes. That must have been her motive. The inspira-
tion of a possibly unconscious Machiavellism ! Either
she was afraid of having a sister-in-law to look after
during the husband's long absences; or dreaded the more

FLORA 205

or less distant eventuality of her brother being persuaded
to leave the sea, the friendly refuge of his unhappy youth,
and to settle on shore, bringing to her very door this
undesirable, this embarrassing connection. She wanted
to be done with it maybe simply from the fatigue of
continuous effort in good or evil, which, in the bulk of
common mortals, accounts for so many surprising incon-
sistencies of conduct.

I don't know that I had classed Mrs. Fyne, in my
thoughts, amongst common mortals. She was too quietly
sure of herself for that. But little Fyne, as I spied him
next morning (out of the carriage window) speeding alonr
the platform, looked very much like a common, flustered
mortal who has made a very near thing of catching his
train: the starting, wild eyes, the tense and excited face,
the distracted gait, all the common symptoms were there,
rendered more impressive by his native solemnity which
flapped about him like a disordered garment. Had he
I asked myself with interest resisted his wife to the very
last minute and then bolted up the road from the last con-
clusive argument, as though it had been a loaded gun
suddenly produced? I opened the carriage door, and a
vigorous porter shoved him in from behind just as the end
of the rustic platform went gliding swiftly from under his
feet. He was very much out of breath, and I waited with
some curiosity for the moment he would recover his power
of speech. That moment came. He said "Good morn-
ing" with a slight gasp, remained very still for another
minute and then pulled out of his pocket the travelling
chessboard, and holding it in his hand, directed at me a
glance of inquiry.

"Yes, Certainly," I said, very much disappointed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

ON THE PAVEMENT

FYNE was not willing to talk; but as I had been
already let into the secret, the fair-minded little
man recognized that I had some right to informa-
tion if I insisted on it. And I did insist, after the third
game. We were yet some way from the end of our journey.

"Oh, if you yvant to know," was his somewhat impatient
opening. And then he talked rather volubly. First of all
his wife had not given him to read the letter received from
Flora (I had suspected him of having it in his pocket), but
had told him all about the contents. It was not at all
what it should have been even if the girl had wished to
affirm her right to disregard the feelings of all the world
Her own had been trampled in the dirt out of all shape,
Extraordinary thing to say I would admit, for a young
girl of her age. The whole tone of that letter was wrong,
quite wrong. It was certainly not the product of a say,
of a well-balanced mind.

"If she were given some sort of footing in this world,"
I said, "if only no bigger than the palm of my hand, she
would probably learn to keep a better balance."

Fyne ignored this little remark. His wife, he said, was
not the sort of person to be addressed mockingly on a
serious subject. There was an unpleasant strain of levity
in that letter, extending even to the references to Captain
Anthony himself. Such a disposition was enough, his

206

ON THE PAVEMENT 207

wife had pointed out to him, to alarm one for the future,
had all the circumstances of that preposterous project
been as satisfactory as in fact they were not. Other parts
of the letter seemed to have a challenging tone as if
daring them (the Fynes) to approve her conduct. And
at the same time implying that she did not care, that it
was for their own sakes that she hoped they would "go
against the world the horrid world which had crushed
poor papa/'

Fyne called upon me to admit that this was pretty cool

considering. And there was another thing, too. It
seems that for the last six months (she had been assisting
two ladies who kept a kindergarten school in Bayswater

a mere pittance) Flora had insisted on devoting all her
spare time to the study of the trial. She had been looking
up files of old newspapers, and working herself up into a
state of indignation with what she called the injustice and
the hypocrisy of the prosecution. Her father, Fyne re-
minded me, had made some palpable hits in his answers in
court, and she had fastened on them triumphantly. She
had reached the conclusion of her father's innocence, and
had been brooding over it. Mrs. Fyne had pointed out
to him the danger of this.

The train ran into the station and Fyne, jumping out
directly it came to a standstill, seemed glad to cut short
the conversation. We walked in silence a little way,
boarded a 'bus, then walked again. I don't suppose that
since the days of his childhood, when surely he was taken
to see the Tower, he had been once east of Temple Bar.
He looked about him sullenly; and when I pointed out
in the distance the rounded front of the Eastern Hotel at
the bifurcation of two very broad, mean, shabby thorough-

208 CHANCE

fares, rising like a gray stucco tower above the lowly roofs
of the dirty-yellow, two-story houses, he only grunted
disapprovingly.

"I wouldn't lay too much stress on what you have
been telling ine," I observed quietly as we approached
that unattractive building. "No man will believe a girl
who has just accepted his suit to be not well balanced
you know."

"Oh! Accepted his suit," muttered Fyne, who seemed
to have been thoroughly convinced, indeed. "It may
have been the other way about." And then he added:
"I am going through with it."

I said that this was very praiseworthy, but that a certain
moderation of statement . . . He waved his hand at
me and mended his pace. I guess that he was anxious
to get his mission over as quickly as possible. He barely
gave himself time to shake hands with me and made a rush
at the narrow glass door with the words Hotel Entrance
on it. It swung to behind his back with no more noise
than the snap of a toothless jaw.

The absurd temptation to remain and see what would
come of it got over my better judgment. I hung about
irresolute, wondering how long an embassy of that sort
would take, and whether Fyne on coming out would con-
sent to be communicative. I feared he would be shocked
at finding me there, would consider my conduct incorrect,
conceivably treat me with contempt. I walked off a few
paces. Perhaps it would be possible to read something on
Fyne's face as he came out; and, if necessary, I could
always eclipse myself discreetly through the door of one of
the bans. The ground floor of the Eastern Hotel was an
unabashed pub, with plate-glass fronts, a display of brass

ON THE PAVEMENT 209

rails, and divided into many compartments each having its
own entrance.

But of course all this was silly. The marriage, the
love, the affairs of Captain Anthony, were none of my
business. I was on the point of moving down the street
for good when my attention was attracted by a girl
approaching the hotel entrance from the west. She was
dressed very modestly in black. It was the white straw
hat of a good form and trimmed with a bunch of pale roses
which had caught my eye. The whole figure seemed
familiar. Of course! Flora de Barral. She was making
for the hotel, she was going in. And Fyne was with
Captain Anthony! To meet him could not be pleasant
for her. I wished to save her from the awkwardness,
and as I hesitated what to do she looked up and our
eyes happened to meet just as she was turning off the
pavement into the hotel doorway. Instinctively I ex-
tended my arm. It was enough to make her stop. I
suppose she had some faint notion that she had seen me
before somewhere. She walked slowly forward, prudent
and attentive, watching my faint smile.

" Excuse me," I said directly she had approached me
near enough. "Perhaps you would like to know that Mr.
Fyne is upstairs with Captain Anthony at this moment/'

She uttered a faint "All! Mr. Fyne!" I could read in
her eyes that she had recognized me now. Her serious
expression extinguished the imbecile grin of which I was
conscious. I raised my hat. She responded with a slow
inclination of the head while her luminous, mistrustful,
maiden's glance seemed to whisper, "What is this one do-
ing here?"

"I came up to town with Fyne this morning," I said In a

210 CHANCE

businesslike tone. "I have to see a friend in East India
Dock. Fyne and I parted this moment at the door
here. . . ." The girl regarded me with darkening
eyes . . . "Mrs. Fyne did not come with her hus-
band," I went on, then hesitated before that white face so
still in the pearly shadow thrown down by the hat-brim.
"But she sent him," I murmured by way of warning.

Her eyelids fluttered slowly over the fixed stare. I
imagine she was not much disconcerted by this develop-
ment. "I live a long way from here," she whispered.

I said perfunctorily, "Do you?" And we remained
gazing at each other. The uniform paleness of her com-
plexion was not that of an anaemic girl. It had a trans-
parent vitality, and at that particular moment the faintest
possible rosy tinge, the merest suspicion of colour; an
equivalent, I suppose, in any other girl to blushing like
a peony, while she told me that Captain Anthony had
arranged to show her the ship that morning.

It was easy to understand that she did not want to meet
I^yne. And when I mentioned in a discreet murmur that
he had come because of her letter, she glanced at the hotel
door quickly, and moved off a few steps to a position
where she could watch the entrance without being seen. I
iollowed her. At the junction of the two thoroughfares
she stopped in the thin traffic of the broad pavement and
turned to me with an air of challenge. "And so you
know."

I told her that I had not seen the letter, I had only
heard of it. She was a little impatient. "I mean all
about me."

Yes. I knew all about her. The distress of Mr. and
Mrs. Fyne especially of ?.Tr:-,. Fyne was so great that

ON THE PAVEMENT 211

they would have shared it with anybody almost not
belonging to their circle of friends. I happened to be at
hand that was all.

" You understand that I am not their friend. I am only
a holiday acquaintance."

"She was not very much upset?" queried Flora de
Barral, meaning, of course, Mrs. Fyne. And I admitted
that she was less so than her husband and even less than
myself. Mrs. Fyne was a very self-possessed person
which nothing could startle out of her extreme theoretical
position. She did not seem startled when Fyne and I
proposed going to the quarry.

"You put that notion into their heads," the girl said.

I advanced that the notion was in their heads already.
But it was much more vividly in my head since I had seen
her up there with my own eyes, tempting Providence.

She was looking at me with extreme attention, anc 1
murmured :

"Is that what you called it to them? Tempting

>

"No. T told them that you were making up your mind
and I came along just then. I told them that you were
saved by me. My shout checked you ..." She
moved her head gently from right to left in negation.

. . . "No? Well, have it your OWTI way."

I thought to myself: "She has found another issue.
She wants to forget now. And no wonder. She wants to
persuade herself that she had never known such an ugly
and poignant minute in her life. "After all," I conceded
aloud, "things are not always what they seem."

Her little head with its deep blue eyes, eyes of tenderness
and anger under the black arch of fine eyebrows, was very

CHANCE

still. The mouth looked very red in the white face peep-
ing from under the veil, the little pointed chin had in its
form something aggressive. Slight and even angular in
her modest black dress she was an appealing and yes
she was a desirable little figure.

Her lips moved very fast asking me.

"And they believed you at once?"

"Yes, they believed me at once. Mrs. Fyne's word to
us was "Go!"

A white gleam between the red lips was so short that I
remained uncertain whether it was a smile or a ferocious
baring of little even teeth. The rest of the face preserved
its innocent, tense, and enigmatical expression. She spoke
rapidly.

"No, it wasn't your shout. I had been there some time
before you saw me. And I was not there to tempt Provi-
dence, as you call it. I went up there for - for what you
thought I was going to do. Yes. I climbed two fences.
I did not mean to leave anything to Providence. There
seem to be people for whom Providence can do nothing. I
suppose you are shocked to hear me talk like that?"

I shook my head. I was not shocked. What had kept
her back all that time, till I appeared on the scene below,
she went on, was neither fear nor any other kind of hesi-
tation. One reaches a point, she said with appalling
youthful simplicity, where nothing that concerns one
matters any longer. But something did keep her back.
I should have never guessed what it was. She, herself,
confessed that it seemed absurd to say. It was the Fyne
dog.

Flora de Barral paused, looking at me with a peculiar
expression, and then went on. You see, she imagined the

ON THE PAVEMENT 213

dog had become extremely attached to her. She took it
into her head that he might fall over or jump down after
her. She tried to drive him away. She spoke sternly to
him. It only made him more frisky. He barked and
jumped about her skirt in his usual, idiotic, high spirits.
He scampered away in circles between the pines, charging
upon her andleapingashighasherwaist. She commanded,
"Go away! Go home!" She even picked up from the
ground a bit of a broken branch and threw it at him.
At this his delight knew no hounds; his rushes became
faster, his yapping louder; he seemed to be having the time
of his life. She was convinced that the moment she threw
herself down he would spring over after her as if it were
part of the game. She was vexed almost to tears. Sh3
was touched, too. And when he stood still at some dis-
tance as if suddenly rooted to the ground, wagging his tail
slowly and watching her intensely with his shining eyes,
another fear came to her. She imagined herself gone and
the creature sitting on the brink, its head thrown up to the
sky and howling for hours. This thought was not to be
borne. Then my shout reached her ears.

She told me all this with simplicity. My voice had
destroyed her poise the suicide poise of her mind.
Every act of ours, the most criminal, the most mad, pre-
supposes a balance of thought, feeling, and will, like a
correct attitude for an effective stroke in a game. And I
had destroyed it. She was no longer in proper form for the
act. She was not very much annoyed. Next day would
do. She would have to slip away without attracting the
notice of the dog. She thought of the necessity almost
tenderly. She came down the path, carrying her despair
with lucid calmness. But when she saw herself deserted

214 CHANCE

by the dog, she had an impulse to turn round, go up again
and be done with it. Not even that animal cared for her
in the end.

"I really did think that he was attached to me. What
did he want to pretend for, like this? I thought nothing
could hurt me any more. Oh, yes. I would have gone up,
but I felt suddenly so tired. So tired. And then you
were there. I didn't know what you would do. You
might have tried to follow me and I didn't think I could
run not up hill not then."

She had raised her white face a little, and it was queer
to hear her say these things. At that time of the morning
there are comparatively few people out in that part of
the town. The broad, interminable perspective of the
East India Dock Road, the great perspective of drab brick
walls, of gray pavement, of muddy roadway rumbling
dismally with loaded carts and vans, lost itself in the dis-
tance, imposing and shabby in its spacious meanness of
aspect, in its immeasurable poverty of forms, of colouring,
of life under a harsh, unconcerned sky dried by the wind
to a clear blue. It had been raining during the night.
The sunshine itself seemed poor. From time to time a few
bits of paper, a little dust and straw whirled past us on
the broad flat promontory of the pavement before the
rounded front of the hotel.

Flora de Barral was silent for a while. I said:
"And next day you thought better of it."
Again she raised her eyes to mine with that peculiar
expression of informed innocence; and again her white
cheeks took on the faintest tinge of pink the merest
shadow of a blush.

"Next day," she uttered distinctly, "I didn't think.

ON THE PAVEMENT 215

I remembered. That was enough. I remembered what
I should never have forgotten. Never. And Captain
Anthony arrived at the cottage in the evening."

"Ah, yes. Captain Anthony," I murmured. And she
repeated also in a murmur, "Yes! Captain Anthony."
The faint flush of warm life left her face. I subdued my
voice still more, and not looking at her, "You found him
sympathetic?" I ventured.

Her long dark lashes went down a little with an air ol
calculated discretion. At least so it seemed to me. And
yet no one could say that I was inimical to that girl. But
there you are! Explain it as you may, in this world the
friendless, like the poor, are always a little suspect, as if
honesty and delicacy were only possible to the privileged
few.

"Why do you ask?" she said after a time, raising her
eyes suddenly to mine in an effect of candour which on the
same principle (of the disinherited not being to be trusted)
might have been judged equivocal.

" If you mean what right I have ..." She moved
slightly a hand in a worn brown glove as much as to say
she could not question any one's right against such an out-
cast as herself.

I ought to have been moved, perhaps; but I only noted
the total absence of humility. . . . "No right at all,"
I continued, "but just interest. Mrs. Fyne it's too
difficult to explain how it came about has talked to me
of you well extensively."

No doubt Mrs. Fyne had told me the truth, Flora said
brusquely with an unexpected hoarseness of tone. This
very dress she was wearing had been given her by Mrs.
Fyne. Of course I looked at it. It could not have been a

216 CHANCE

recent gift. Close-fitting and black, with heliotrope silk
facings under a figured net, it looked far from new, just on
this side of shabbiness; in fact, it accentuated the slight-
ness of her figure, it went well in its suggestion of half
mourning with the white face in which the unsmiling red
lips alone seemed warm with the rich blood of life and
passion.

Little Fyne was staying up there an unconscionable
time. Was he arguing, preaching, remonstrating? Had
he discovered in himself a capacity and a taste for that
sort of thing? Or was he, perhaps, in an intense dislike for
the job, beating about the bush and only puzzling Captain
Anthony, the providential man, who, if he expected the
girl to appear at any moment, must have been on tenter-
hooks all the time, and beside himself with impatience to
see the back of his brother-in-law. How was it that he
had not got rid of Fyne long before in any case? I don't
mean by actually throwing him out of the window, but in
some other resolute manner.

Surely Fyne had not impressed him. That he was an
impressionable man I could not doubt. The presence of
the girl there on the pavement before me proved this up
to the hilt and, well, yes, touchingly enough.

It so happened that in their wanderings to and fro
our glances met. They met and remained in contact more
familiar than a hand-clasp, more communicative, more
expressive. There was something comic, too, in the whole
situation, in the poor girl and myself waiting together on
the broad pavement at a corner public-house for the issue
of Fyne's ridiculous mission. But the comic when it is
human becomes quickly painful. Yes, she was infinitely
anxious. And I was asking myself whether this poignant

ON THE PAVEMENT 217

tension of her suspense depended to put it plainly on
hunger or love.

The answer would have been of some interest to Captain
Anthony. For my part, in the presence of a young girl I
always become convinced that the dreams of sentiment
like the consoling mysteries of Faith are invincible;
that it is never, never reason which governs men and women.

Yet what sentiment could there have been on her part?
I remembered her tone only a moment since when she
said: "That evening Captain Anthony arrived at the
cottage." And considering, too, what the arrival of
Captain Anthony meant in this connection, I wondered at
the calmness with which she could mention that fact. He
arrived at the cottage. In the evening. I knew that late
train. He probably walked from the station. The even-
ing would be well advanced. I could almost see a dark, in-
distinct figure opening the wicket gate of the garden.
Where was she? Did she see him enter? Was she some-
where near by and did she hear without the slightest
premonition his chance and fateful footsteps on the
flagged path leading to the cottage door? In the shadow
of the night made more cruelly sombre for her by the very
shadow of death he must have appeared too strange, too
remote, too unknown to impress himself on her thought as
a living force such a force as a man can bring to bear on
a woman's destiny.

She glanced toward the hotel door again; I followed
suit and then our eyes met once more, this time intention-
ally. A tentative, uncertain intimacy was springing up
between us two. She said simply: "You are waiting for
Mr. Fyne to come out, aren't you? "

I admitted to her that I was v/aUIng to see Mr. Fyne

218 CHANCE ,

come out. That was all. I had nothing to say to him.

"I have said yesterday all I had to say to him/' I added
meaningly. " I have said it to them both, in fact. I have
also heard all they had to say."

"About me?" she murmured.

"Yes. The conversation was about you/'

"I wonder if they told you everything."

If she wondered I could do nothing else but wonder, too.
But I did not tell her that. I only smiled. The material
point was that Captain Anthony should be told every-
thing. But as to that I was very certain that the good
sister would see to it. Was there anything more to dis-
close some other misery, some other deception of which
that girl had been a victim? It seemed hardly probable.
It was not even easy to imagine. What struck me most
was her I suppose I must call it composure. One
could not tell whether she understood what she had done.
One wondered. She was not so much unreadable as
blank; and I did not know whether to admire her for it or
dismiss her from my thoughts as a passive butt of ferocious
misfortune.

Looking back at the occasion when we first got on
speaking terms on the road by the quarry, I had to admit
that she presented some points of a problematic appear-
ance. I don't know why I imagined Captain Anthony as
the sort of man who would not be likely to take the initia-
tive; not perhaps from indifference but from that peculiar
timidity before women which often enough is found in
conjunction with chivalrous instincts, with a great need
for affection and great stability of feelings. Such men are
easily moved. At the least encouragement they go for-
ward with the eagerness, with the recklessness of starvation.

ON THE PAVEMENT 219

This accounted for the suddenness of the affair. No!
With all her inexperience this girl could not have found any
great difficulty in her conquering enterprise. She must
have begun it. And yet there she was, patient, almost
unmoved, almost pitiful, waiting outside like a beggar,
without a right to anything but compassion, for a promised
dole.

Every moment people were passing close by us, singly,
in twos and threes; the inhabitants of that end of the town
where life goes on unadorned by grace or splendour; they
passed us in their shabby garments, with sallow faces,
haggard, anxious or weary, or simply without expression,
in an unsmiling, sombre stream not made up of lives but
of mere unconsidered existences whose joys, struggles,
thoughts, sorrows, and their very hopes were miserable,
glamourless, and of no account in the world. And when
one thought of their reality to themselves one's heart
became oppressed. But of all the individuals who passed
by none appeared to me for the moment so pathetic in
unconscious patience as the girl standing before me; none
more difficult to understand. It is perhaps because I
was thinking of things which I could not ask her about.

In fact we had nothing to say to each other; but we
two, strangers as we really were to each other, had dealt
with the most intimate and final of subjects, the subject of
death. It had created a sort of bond between us. It
made our silence weighty and uneasy. I ought to have
left her there and then; but, as I think I've told you before,
the fact of having shouted her away from the edge of a
precipice seemed, somehow, to have engaged my responsi-
bility as to this other leap. And so we had still an inti-
mate subject between us to lend more weight and more

2?0 CHANCE

uneasiness to our silence. The subject of marriage.
I use the word not so much in reference to the ceremony
itself (I had no doubt of this, Captain Anthony being a
decent fellow) or in view of the social institution in general,
as to which I have no opinion, but in regard to the human
relation. The first two views are not particularly interest-
ing. The ceremony, I suppose, is adequate; the institution
I dare say is useful or it would not have endured. But the
human relation thus recognized is a mysterious thing in its
origins, character, and consequences. Unfortunately you
can't buttonhole familiarly a young girl as you would a
young fellow. I don't think that even another woman
could really do it. She would not be trusted. There is
not between women that fund of at least conditional
loyalty which men may depend on in their dealings with
each other. I believe that any woman would rather trust
a man. The difficulty in such a delicate case was how to
get on terms.

So we held our peace in the odious uproar of that wide
roadway thronged with heavy carts. Great vans carrying
enormous piled -up loads advanced sway ing like mountains.
It was as if the whole world existed only for selling and
buying and those who had nothing to do with the move-
ment of merchandise were of no account.

"You must be tired," I said. One had to say some-
thing if only to assert one's self against that wearisome,
passionless, and crushing uproar. She raised her eyes for
a moment. No, she was not. Not very. She had not
walked all the way. She came by train as far as White-
chapel Station and had only walked from there.

She had had an ugly pilgrimage; but whether of love
or of necessity who could tell? And that precisely was

ON THE PAVEMENT 221

what I should have liked to get at. This was not, however,
a question to be asked point-blank, and I could not think
of any effective circumlocution. It occurred to me, too,
that she might conceivably know nothing of it herself
I mean by reflection. That young woman had been
obviously considering death. She had gone the length
of forming some conception of it. But as to its com-
panion fatality love she, I was certain, had never re-
flected upon its meaning.

With that man in the hotel, whom I did not know, and
this girl standing before me in the street, I felt that it was
an exceptional case. He had broken away from his sur-
roundings; she stood outside the pale. One aspect of
conventions which people who declaim against them lose
sight of is that conventions make both joy and suffering
easier to bear in a becoming manner. But those tw r o were
outside all conventions. They would be as untrammelled
in a sense as the first man and the first woman. The
trouble was that I could riot imagine anything about Flora
de Barral and the brother of Mrs. Fyne. Or, if you like, I
could imagine anything, which comes practically to the
same thing. Darkness and chaos are first cousins. I
should have liked to ask the girl for a w r ord which would
give my imagination its line. But how was one to venture
so far? I can be rough sometimes, but I am not naturally
impertinent. I would have liked to ask her for instance:
"Do you know what you have done with yourself?" A
question like that. Anyhow it was time for one of us to
say something. A question it must be. And the ques-
tion I asked was: "So he's going to show you the ship?"

She seemed glad I had spoken at last, and glad of the
opportunity to speak herself .

222 CHANCE

"Yes. He said he would this morning. Did you
say you did not know Captain Anthony? "

"No. I don't know him. Is he anything like his
sister?"

She looked startled and murmured "Sister!" in a puz-
zled tone which astonished me. "Oh! Mrs. Fyne,"
she exclaimed, recollecting herself, and avoiding my eyes,
while I looked at her curiously.

What an extraordinary detachment! And all the
time the stream of shabby people was hastening by us,
with the continuous dreary shuffling of weary footsteps
on the flagstones. The sunshine falling on the grime of
surfaces, on the poverty of tones and forms, seemed of
an inferior quality, its joy faded, its brilliance tarnished
and dusty. I had to raise my voice in the dull vibrating
noise of the roadway.

"You don't mean to say you have forgotten the con-
nection?"

She cried readily enough: "I wasn't thinking." And
then, while I wondered what could have been the images
occupying her brain at this time, she asked me: "You
didn't see my letter to Mrs. Fyne did you? "

"No. I didn't," I shouted. Just then the racket
was distracting, a pair-horse trolley lightly loaded with
loose rods of iron passing slowly very near us. "I wasn't
trusted so far." And remembering Mrs. Fyne's hints
that the girl was unbalanced, I added: "Was it an
unreserved confession you wrote?"

She did not answer me for a time, and as I waited I
thought that there's nothing like a confession to make
one look mad; and that of all confessions a written one
is the most detrimental all round. Never confessi

ON THE PAVEMENT 225

Never, never! An untimely joke is a source of bitter
regret always. Sometimes it may ruin a man; not be-
cause it is a joke, but because it is untimely. And a
confession of whatever sort is always untimely. The
only thing which makes it supportable for a while is
curiosity. You smile? Ah, but it is so, or else people
would be sent to the rightabout at the second sentence.
How many sympathetic souls can you reckon on in the
world? One in ten, one in a hundred in a thousand
in ten thousand? Ah! What a sell these confessions
are! What a horrible sell! You seek sympathy, and
all you get is the most evanescent sense of relief if you
get that much. For a confession, whatever it may be,
stirs the secret depths of the hearer's character. Often
depths that he himself is but dimly aware of. And so
the righteous triumph secretly, the lucky are amused,
the strong are disgusted, the weak either upset or irri-
tated with you according to the measure of their sincerity
with themselves. And all of them in their hearts brand
you for either mad or impudent. . . ."

I had seldom seen Marlow so vehement, so pessimistic,
so earnestly cynical before. I cut his declamation short
by asking what answer Flora de Barral had given to h^s
question. "Did the poor girl admit firing off her con-
fidences at Mrs. Fyne eight pages of close writing
that sort of thing?"

Marlow shook his head.

"She did not tell me. I accepted her silence as a
kind of answer and remarked that it would have been
better if she had simply announced the fact to Mrs. Fyne
at the cottage. 'Why didn't you do it?'" I asked point-
blank.

224 CHANCE

lie said: "I am not a very plucky girl." She looked
up at me and added meaningly: "And you know it. And
you know why."

I must remark that she seemed to have become very
subdued since our first meeting at the quarry. Almost
a different person from the defiant, angry, and despairing
girl with quivering lips and resentful glances.

"I thought it was very sensible of you to get away from
that sheer drop," I said.

She looked up with something of that old expression.

"That's not what I mean. I see you will have it that
you saved my life. Nothing of the kind. I was concerned
for that vile little beast of a dog. No ! It was the idea of
of doing away with myself which was cowardly.
That's what I meant by saying I am not a very plucky
girl."

"Oh!" I retorted airily. "That little dog. He isn't
really a bad little dog." But she lowered her eyelids and
went on :

"I was so miserable that I could think only of myself.
This was mean. It was cruel, too. And besides I had not
given it up not then."

Marlow changed his tone, and continued:
I don't know much of the psychology of self-destruc^
tion. It's a sort of subject one has few opportunities to
study closely. I knew a man once who came to my rooms
one evening, and while smoking a cigar confessed to me
moodily that he was trying to discover some graceful way
of retiring out of existence. I didn't study his case, but
I had a glimpse of him the other day at a cricket match,
with some women, having a good time. That seems *

ON THE PAVEMENT 225

fairly reasonable attitude. Considered as a sin, it is a case
for repentance before the throne of a merciful God. But I
imagine that Flora de Barral's religion under the care of
the distinguished governess could have been nothing but
outward formality. Remorse in the sense of gnawing
shame and unavailing regret is only understandable to me
when some wrong had been done to a fellow-creature.
But why she, that girl who existed on sufferance, so to
speak why she should writhe inwardly with remorse
because she had once thought of getting rid of a life which
was nothing in every respect but a curse that I could
not understand. I thought it was very likely some ob-
scure influence of common forms of speech, some tradi-
tional or inherited freeling a vague notion that suicide
is a legal crime; words of old moralists and preachers
which remain in the air and help to form all the authorized
moral conventions. Yes, I was surprised at her remorse.
But lowering her glance unexpectedly till her dark eye-
lashes seemed to rest against her white cheeks she pre-
sented a perfectly demure aspect. It was so attractive
that I could not help a faint smile. That Flora de Barral
should ever, in any aspect, have the power to evoke a
smile was the very last thing I should have believed,
She went on after a slight hesitation:

"One clay I started for there, for that place.'*
Look at the influence of a mere play of physiognomy!
If you remember what we were talking about you will
hardly believe that I caught myself grinning down at that
demure little girl. I must say, too, that I felt more
friendly to her at the moment than ever before.

"Oh, you did? To take that jump? You are a deter-
mined young person. Well, what happened that time?"

226 CHANCE

An almost imperceptible alteration in her bearing; a
slight droop of her head perhaps a mere nothing <
made her look more demure than ever.

"I had left the cottage," she began a little hurriedly.
"I was walking along the road you know, the road. I
had made up my mind I was not coming back this time.**

I won't deny that these words spoken from under the
brim of her hat (oh, yes, certainly her head was down >
she had put it down) gave me a thrill; for indeed I had
never doubted her sincerity. It could never have been a
make-believe despair.

" Yes," I whispered. "You were going along the road."

"When . . . " Again she hesitated with an effect of
innocent shyness, worlds asunder from tragic issues; then
glided on ... "When suddenly Captain Anthony
came through a gate out of a field."

I coughed down the beginning of a most improper fit
of laughter, and felt ashamed of myself. Her eyes, raised
for a moment, seemed full of innocent suffering and unex-
pressed menace in the depths of the dilated pupils within
the rings of sombre blue. It was how shall I say it?
a night effect when you seem to see vague shapes and don't
know what reality you may come upon at any time.
Then she lowered her eyelids again, shutting all mysteri-
ousness out of the situation except for the sobering memory
of that glance, nightlike in the sunshine, expressively still
in the brutal unrest of the street.

"So Captain Anthony joined you did he?"

"He opened a field-gate and walked out on the road.
He crossed to my side and went on with me. He had his
pipe in his hand. He said: 'Are you going far this
morning? 1 n

ON THE PAVEMENT 227

These words (I was watching her white face as she
spoke) gave me a slight shudder. She remained demure 9
almost prim. And I remarked:

"You had been talking together before, of course."

"Not more than twenty words altogether since he
arrived," she declared without emphasis. "That day he
had said * Good-morning ' to me when we met at breakfast
two hours before. And I said good-morning to him. I
did not see him afterward till he came out on the road."

I thought to myself that this was not accidental. He
had been observing her. I felt certain also that he had not
been asking any questions of Mrs. Fyne.

"I wouldn't look at him," said Flora de Barral. "I
had done with looking at people. He said to me: *My
sister does not put herself out much for us. We had better
keep each other company. I have read every book there
is in that cottage. ' I walked on. He did not leave me.
I thought he ought to. But he didn't. He didn't seem to
notice that I would not talk to him."

She was now perfectly still. The w r retclied little parasol
hung down against her dress from her joined hands. I was
rigid with attention. It isn't every day that one culls
such a volunteered tale on a girl's lips. The ugly street-
noises swelling up for a moment covered the next few
words she said. It was vexing. The next word I heard
was "worried."

"It worried you to have him there, walking by your
side."

"Yes. Just that," she went on with downcast eyes.
There was something prettily comical in her attitude and
her tone, while I pictured to myself a poor white-faced girl
walking to her death with an unconscious man striding by

228 CHANCE

her side. Unconscious? I don't know. First of all, I
felt certain that this was no chance meeting. Something
had happened before. Was he a man for a coup-de-foudre,
the lightning stroke of love? I don't think so. That sort
of susceptibility is luckily rare. A world of inflammable
lovers of the Romeo and Juliet type would very soon end
in barbarism and misery. But it is a fact that in every
man (not in every woman) there lives a lover; a lover who
is called out in all his potentialities often by the most in-
significant little tilings as long as they come at the psy-
chological moment: the glimpse of a face at an unusual
angle, an evanescent attitude, the curve of a cheek often
looked at before, perhaps, but then, at the moment,
charged with astonishing significance. These are great
mysteries, of course. Magic signs.

I don't know in what the sign consisted in this case. It
might have been her pallor (it wasn't pasty nor yet papery),
that white face with eyes like blue gleams of fire and
lips like red coals. In certain lights, in certain poises of
head, it suggested tragic sorrow. Or it might have been
her wavy hair. Or even just that pointed chin stuck out
a little, resentful and not particularly distinguished, doing
away with the mysterious aloofness of her fragile presence.
But anyway at a given moment Anthony must have
suddenly seen the girl. And then, that something had
happened to him. Perhaps nothing more than the thought
coming into his head that this was "a possible woman."

Followed this waylaying! Its resolute character makes
me think it was the chin's doing; that "common mortal"
touch which stands in such good stead to some women.
Because men, I mean really masculine men, those whose
generations have evolved an ideal woman, are often very

ON THE PAVEMENT

timid. Who wouldn't be before the ideal? It's your
sentimental trifler, who has just missed being nothing at
all, who is enterprising, simply because it is easy to appear
enterprising when one does not mean to put one's belief
to the test.

Well, whatever it was that encouraged him, Captain
Anthony stuck to Flora de Barral in a manner which in a
timid man might have been called heroic if it had not been
so simple. Whether policy, diplomacy, simplicity, or just
inspiration, he kept up his talk, rather deliberate, with
very few pauses. Then suddenly as if recollecting him-
self:

"It's funny. I don't think you are annoyed with me
for giving you my company unasked. But why don't you
say something?"

I asked Miss de Barral what answer she made to this
query.

"I made no answer," she said in that even, unemotional
low voice which seemed to be her voice for delicate confi-
dences. "I walked on. He did not seem to mind. We
came to the foot of the quarry where the path winds up
hill, past the place where you were sitting by the roadside
that day, I began to wonder what I should do. After
we reached the top Captain Anthony said that he had not
been for a w r alk with a lady for years and years almost
since he was a boy. We had then come to where I ought
to have turned off and struck across a field. I thought of
making a run of it. But he would have caught me up. I
knew he would; and, of course, he would not have allowed
me. I couldn't give him the slip."

"Why didn't you ask him to leave you?" I inquired
curiously.

230 CHANCE

"He would not have taken any notice," she went on
steadily. "And what could I have done then? I could
not have started quarreling with him could I? I hadn't
enough energy to get angry. I felt very tired suddenly.
I just stumbled on straight along the road. Captain
Anthony told me that the family some relations of his
mother he used tojknow in Liverpool was broken up now,
and he had never made any friends since. All gone their
different ways. All the girls married, Nice girls they
were and very friendly to him when he was but little more
than a boy. He repeated: 'Very nice, cheery, clever
girls/ I sat down on a bank against a hedge and began to
cry."

"You must have astonished him not a little," I
observed.

Anthony, it seems, remained on the road looking down
at her. He did not offer to approach her, neither did he
make any other movement or gesture. Flora de Barral
told me all this. She could see him through her tears,
blurred to a mere shadow on the white road, and then
again becoming more distinct, but always absolutely still
and as if lost in thought before a strange phenomenon
which demanded the closest possible attention.

Flora learned later that he had never seen a woman
cry; not in that way, at least. He was impressed and
interested by the mysteriousness of the effect. She was
very conscious of being looked at, but was not able to stop
herself crying. In fact, she was not capable of any effort.
Suddenly he advanced two steps, stooped, caught hold of
her hands lying on her lap, and pulled her up to her feet;
she found herself standing close to him almost before she
realized what be had done. Some people were coming

ON THE PAVEMENT 231

briskly along the road and Captain Anthony muttered:
"You don't want to be stared at. What about that stile
over there? Can we go back across the fields?"

She snatched her hands out of his grasp (it seems he
had omitted to let them go) , marched away from him and
got over the stile. It was a big field sprinkled profusely
with white sheep. A trodden path crossed it diagonally.
After she had gone more than halfway she turned her head
for the first time. Keeping five yards or so behind,
Captain Anthony was following her with an air of extreme
interest. Interest or eagerness. At any rate she caught
an expression on his face which frightened her. But not
enough to make her run. And indeed it would have had
to be something incredibly awful to scare into a run a girl
who had come to the end of her courage to live.

As if encouraged by this glance over the shoulder,
Captain Anthony came up boldly, and now that he was by
her side, she felt his nearness intimately, like a touch.
She tried to disregard this sensation. But she was not
angry with him now. It wasn't worth while. She was
thankful that he had the sense not to ask questions as to
this crying. Of course he didn't ask, because he didn't
care. No one in the world cared for her, neither those who
pretended nor yet those who did not pretend. She pre-
ferred the latter.

Captain Anthony opened for her a gate into another
field; when they got through he kept walking abreast,
elbow to elbow almost. His voice growled pleasantly
in her very ear. Staying in this dull place was enough to
give any one the blues. His sister scribbled all day. It
was positively unkind. He alluded to his nieces as rude,
selfish monkeys, without either feelings or manners. And

232 CHANCE

he went on to talk about his ship being laid up for a month
and dismantled for repairs. The worst was that on arriv-
ing in London he found he couldn't get the rooms he was
used to, where they made him as comfortable as such a
confirmed sea-dog as himself could be anywhere on shore.

In the effort to subdue by dint of talking and to keep
in check the mysterious, the profound attraction he felt
already for that delicate being of flesh and blood, with
pale cheeks, with darkened eyelids, and eyes scalded with
hot tears, he w r ent on speaking of himself as a confirmed
enemy of life on shore a perfect terror to a simple man,
what with the fads and proprieties and the ceremonies and
affectations. He hated all that. He wasn't fit for it.
There was no rest and peace and security but on the sea.

This gave one a view of Captain Anthony as a hermit
withdrawn from a wicked world. It was amusingly un-
expected to me and nothing more. But it must have
appealed straight to that bruised and battered young soul.
Still shrinking from his nearness she had ended by listening
to him with avidity. His deep, murmuring voice soothed
her. And she thought suddenly that there was peace and
rest in the grave, too.

She heard him say: "Look at my sister. She isn't a
bad woman by any means. She asks me here because it's
right and proper, I suppose, but she has 110 use for me.
There you have your shore people. I quite understand
anybody crying. I would have been gone already, only,
truth to say, I haven't any friends to go to." He added
brusquely: "And you?"

She made a slight negative sign. He must have been
observing her, putting two and two together. After a
pause h^ t said simply: "When I first came here I thought

ON THE PAVEMENT 233

you were governess to these girls. My sister didn't say a
word about you to me."

Then Flora spoke for the first time.

"Mrs. Fyne is my best friend."

"So she is mine," he said without the slightest irony or
bitterness, but added with conviction: "That shows
you what life ashore is. Much better be out of it."

As they were approaching the cottage he was heard
again as though a long silent walk had not intervened:
"But anyhow I shan't ask her anything about you."

He stopped short and she went on alone. His last
words had impressed her. Everything he had said
seemed somehow to have a special meaning under its
obvious conversational sense. Till she went in at the
door of the cottage she felt his eyes resting on her.

That is it. He had made himself felt. That girl was,
one may say, washing about with slack limbs in the ugly
surf of life with no opportunity to strike out for herself,
when suddenly she had been made to feel that there was
somebody beside her in the bitter water. A most consid-
erable moral event for her, whether she was aware of it or
not. They met again at the one o'clock dinner. I am
inclined to think that, being a healthy girl, under her frail
appearance, and fast walking, and what I may call relief -
crying"(there are many kinds of crying) making oneliungry,
she made a good meal. It was Captain Anthony who had
no appetite. His sister commented on it in a curt,
business-like manner, and the eldest of his delightful
neices said mockingly: "You have been taking too much
exercise this] morning,; Uncle Roderick." The niild
Uncle Roderick turned upon her with a "What dc you
know about it, young lady?" so charged with suppressed

234 CHANCE

savagery that the whole round table gave one gasp and
went dumb for the rest of the meal. He took no notice
whatever of Flora de Barral. I don't think it was from
prudence or any calculated motive. I believe he was so
full of her aspects that he did not want to look in her di-
rection when there were other people to hamper his
imagination.

You understand I am piecing here bits of disconnected
statements. Next day Flora saw him leaning over the
field gate. When she told me this, I didn't of course ask
her how it was she was there. Probably she could not
have told me how it was she was there. The difficulty
here is to keep steadily in view the then conditions of her
existence, a combination of dreariness and horror.

That hermit-like but not exactly misanthropic sailor
was leaning over the gate moodily. When he saw the
white-faced, restless Flora drifting like a lost thing along;
the road he put his pipe in his pocket and called out,
"Good morning, Miss Smith," in a tone of amazing
happiness. She, with one foot in life and the other in a
nightmare, was at the same time inert and unstable, and
very much at the mercy of sudden impulses. She
swerved, came distractedly right up to the gate, and
looking straight into his eyes: "I am not Miss Smith.
That's not my name. Don't call me by it."

She was shaking as if in a passion. His eyes expressed
nothing; he only unlatched the gate in silence, grasped
her arm and drew her in. Then closing it with a kick

"Not your name? That's all one to me. Your name's
the least thing about you I care for." He was leading her
firmly away from the gate, though she resisted slightly.
There was a sort of joy in his eyes which frightened her*

ON THE PAVEMENT 235

*' You are not a princess in disguise," he said with an un-
expected laugh she found blood-curdling. "And that's
all I care for. You had better understand that I am not
blind and not a fool. And then it's plain for even a fool to
see that things have been going hard with you. You are
on a lee shore and eating your heart out with worry."

What seemed most awful to her was the elated light
in his eyes, the rapacious smile that would come and go
on his lips as if he were gloating over her misery. But
her misery was his opportunity, and he rejoiced while the
tenderest pity seemed to flood his whole being. He
pointed out to her that she knew who he was. He was
Mrs. Fyne's brother. And well, if his sister was the best
friend she had in the w r orld, then, by Jove, it was about
time somebody came along to look after her a little.

Flora had tried more than once to free herself, but he
tightened his grasp of her arm each time and even shook
it a little without ceasing to speak. The nearness of his
face intimidated her. He seemed striving to look her
through. It was obvious the world had been using her
ill. And even as he spoke with indignation the very marks
and stamp of this ill-usage of which he was so certain
seemed to add to the inexplicable attraction he felt for her
person. It was not pity alone, I take it. It was some-
thing more spontaneous, perverse and exciting. It gave
him the feeling that if only he could get hold of her, no
woman would belong to him so completely as this
woman.

"Whatever your troubles," he said, "I am the man to
take you away from them; that is, if you are not afraid.
You told me you had no friends. Neither have I. No-
body ever cared for me as far as I can remember. Perhaps

236 CHANCE

you could. Yes, I live on the sea. But who would you be
parting from? No one. You have no one belonging to
you."

At this point she broke away from him and ran. He
did not pursue her. The tall hedges tossing in the wind,
the wide fields, the clouds driving over the sky, and the
sky itself wheeled about her in masses of green and white
and blue as if the world were breaking up silently in a
whirl, and her foot at the next step were bound to find
the void. She reached the gate all right, got out, and,
once on the road, discovered that she had not the courage
to look back. The rest of that day she spent with the
Fyne girls, who gave her to understand that she was a
slow and unprofitable person. Long after tea, nearly at
dusk, Captain Anthony (the son of the poet) appeared
suddenly before her in the little garden in front of the
cottage. They were alone for the moment. The wind
had dropped. In the calm evening air the voices of
Mrs. Fyne and the girls strolling aimlessly on the road
could be heard. He said to her severely:

"You have understood?"

She looked at him in silence.

"That I love you," he finished.

She shook her head the least bit.

"Don't you believe me?" he asked in a low, infuriated
voice.

"Nobody would love me," she answered in a very quiet
tone. "Nobody could."

He was dumb for a time, astonished beyond measure,
as he well might have been. He doubted his ears. He
was outraged.

"Eh? What? Can't love you? What do you know

ON THE PAVEMENT 237

about it? It's my affair, isn't it? You dare say that to a
man who has just told you! You must be mad!"

"Very nearly," she said with the accent of pent-up
sincerity, and even relieved because she was able to say
something which she felt was true. For the last few days
she had felt herself several times near that madness which
is but an intolerable lucidity of apprehension.

The clear voices of Mrs. Fyne and the girls were coming
nearer, sounding affected in the peace of the passion-laden
earth. He began storming at her hastily.

"Nonsense! Nobody can . . . Indeed! Pah!
You'll have to be shown that somebody can. I can.
Nobody ..." He made a contemptuous hissing
noise. "More likely you can't. They have done some-
thing to you. Something's crushed your pluck. You
can't face a man that's what it is. What made you like
this? Where do you come from? You have been put
upon. The scoundrels whoever they are, men or
women, seem to have robbed you of your very name.
You say you are not Miss Smith. Who are you, then?"

She did not answer. He muttered, "Not that I care,"
and fell silent, because the fatuous, self-confident chatter
of the Fyne girls could be heard at the very gate. But
they were not going to bed yet. They passed on. He
waited a little in silence and immobility, then stamped his
foot and lost control of himself. He growled at her in a
savage passion. She felt certain that he was threatening
her and calling her names. She was no stranger to abuse,
as we know, but there seemed to be a particular kind of
ferocity in this which was new to her. She began to
tremble. The especially terrifying thing was that she
*ould not make out the nature of these awful menaces

338 CHANCE

and names. Not a word. Yet it was not the shrinking
anguish of her other experiences of angry scenes. She
made a mighty effort though her knees were knocking to-
gether, and in an expiring voice demanded that he should
let her go indoors. " Don't stop me. It's no use. It's no
use," she repeated, feeling an invincible obstinacy rising
within her, yet without anger against that raging man.

He became articulate suddenly, and, without raising his
voice, perfectly audible :

"No use! No use! You dare stand here and tell me
that you white-faced wisp, you wreath of mist, you
little ghost of all the sorrow in the world. You dare!
Haven't I been looking at you? You are all eyes. What
makes your cheeks always so white as if you had seen
something . . . Don't speak. I love it ...
No use! And you really think that I can now go to sea
for a year or more, to the other side of the world some-
where, leaving you behind. Why! You would vanish
. . . what little there is of you. Some rough wind
will blow you away altogether. You have no holding
ground on earth. Well, then trust yourself to me to
the sea which is deep like your eyes."

She said: "Impossible." He kept quiet for a while,
then asked in a totally changed tone, a tone of gloomy
curiosity:

"You can't stand me then? Is that it?"

"No," she said, more steady herself. "I am not think-
ing of you at all."

The inane voices of the Fyne girls were heard over the
sombre fields calling to each other, thin and clear. He
muttered: "You could try to. Unless you are thinking
of somebody else."

ON THE PAVEMENT 239

"Yes. I am thinking of somebody else, of some one
Uho has nobody to think of him but me."

His shadowy form stepped out of her way, and suddenly
leaned sideways against the wooden support of the porch.
And as she stood still, surprised by this staggering move-
ment, his voice spoke up in a tone quite strange to her.

" Go in then. Go out of my sight. I thought you said
nobody could love you."

She was passing him when suddenly he struck her as so
forlorn that she was inspired to say: "No one has ever
loved me not in that way if that's what you mean.
Nobody would."

He detached himself brusquely from the post, and she
did not shrink; but Mrs. Fyne and the girls were already
at the gate.

All he understood was that everything was not over yet.
There was no time to lose; Mrs. Fyne and the girls had
come in at the gate. He whispered "Wait" with such
authority (he was the son of Carleon Anthony, the domes-
tic autocrat) that it did arrest her for a moment, long
enough to hear him say that he could not be left like this to
puzzle over her nonsense all night. She was to slip down
again into the garden later on, as soon as she could do so
without being heard. He would be there waiting for her
till till daylight. She didn't think he could go to sleep,

did she? And she had better come, or he broke off

on an unfinished threat.

She vanished into the unlighted cottage just as Mrs.
Fyne came up to the porch. Nervous, holding her breath
in the darkness of the living-room, she heard her best
friend say: "You ought to have joined us, Roderick."
And then: "Have you seen Miss Smith anywhere?"

40 CHANCE

Flora shuddered, expecting Anthony to break out into
betraying imprecations on Miss Smith's head, and cause a
painful and humiliating explanation. She imagined him
full of his mysterious ferocity. To her great surprise,
Anthony's voice sounded very much as usual, with perhaps
a slight tinge of grimness. "Miss Smith! No. I've
;seen no Miss Smith."

Mrs. Fyne seemed satisfied and not much concerned
really.

Flora, relieved, got clear away to her room upstairs,
and shutting her door quietly, dropped into a chair. She
was used to reproaches, abuse, to all sorts of wicked ill
usage short of actual beating on her body. Otherwise
inexplicable angers had cut and slashed and trampled
down her youth without mercy and mainly, it appeared,
because she was the financier De BarraFs daughter, and
also condemned to a degrading sort of poverty through
the action of treacherous men who had turned upon her
father in his hour of need. And she thought with the
tenderest possible affection of that upright figure buttoned
up in a long frock-coat, soft-voiced and having but little
to say to his girl. She seemed to feel his hand closed
round hers. On his flying visits to Brighton he would
always walk hand in hand with her. People stared
covertly at them; the band was playing; and there was
the sea the blue gayety of the sea. They were quietly
happy together. ... It was all over!

An immense anguish of the present wrung her heart and
she nearly cried aloud. That dread of what was before her,
which had been eating up her courage slowly in the course
of odious years, flamed up into an access of panic, that
sort of headlong panic which had already driven her out

ON THE PAVEMENT 241

twice to the top of the cliff-like quarry. She jumped up
saying to herself: "Why not now? At once! Yes. I'll
do it now in the dark!" The very horror of it seemed
to give her additional resolution.

She came down the staircase quietly, and only on the
point of opening the door and because of the discovery
that it was unfastened, she remembered Captain Anthony's
threat to stay in the garden all night. She hesitated.
She did not understand the mood of that man clearly.
He was violent. But she had gone beyond the point
where things matter. What would he think of her coming
down to him as he would naturally suppose? And
even that didn't matter. He could not despise her more
than she despised herself. She must have been light-
headed, because the thought came into her mind that
should he get into ungovernable fury from disappoint-
ment, and perchance strangle her, it would be as good a
way to be done with it as any.

"You had that thought?" I exclaimed in wonder.

With downcast eyes and speaking with an almost pains-
taking precision (her very lips, her red lips, seemed to
move just enough to be heard and no more), she said that,
yes, the thought came into her head. This makes one
shudder at the mysterious ways girls acquire knowledge.
For this was a thought, wild enough, I admit, but which
could only have come from the depths of that sort of ex-
perience which she had not had, and went far beyond a
young girl's possible conception of the strongest and most '
veiled of human emotions.

"He was there, of course?" I said.

"Yes, he was there." She saw him on the path directly
she stepped outside the porch. He was very still. It

242 CHANCE

as though he had been standing there with his face to the
door for hours.

Shaken up by the changing moods of passion and tender-
ness, he must have been ready for any extravagance of
conduct. Knowing the profound silence each night
brought to that nook of the country, I could imagine them
having the feeling of being the only two people on the wide
earth. A row of six or seven lofty elms just across the road
opposite the cottage made the night more obscure in that
little garden. If these two could just make out each
other that was all.

"Well!, And were you very much terrified?' 5 Tasked.

She made me wait a little before she said, raising her
eyes: "He was gentleness itself."

I noticed three abominable, drink-sodden loafers, sallow
and dirty, who had come to range themselves in a row
within ten feet of us against the front of the public-house.
They stared at Flora de Barral's back with unseeing,
mournful fixity.

"Let's move this way a little," I proposed.

She turned at once and we made a few paces; not too
far to take us out of sight of the hotel door, but very nearly.
I could just keep my eyes on it. After all, I had not
been so very long with the girl. If you were to disentangle
the words we actually exchanged from my comments
you would see that they were not so very many, including
everything she had so unexpectedly told me of her story.
No, not so very many. And now it seemed as though
there would be no more. No! I could expect no more.
The confidence was wonderful enough in its nature as far
as it went, and perhaps not to have been expected from
any other girl under the sun. And I felt a little ashamed.

ON THE PAVEMENT 243

The origin of our intimacy was too gruesome. It was as if
listening to her I had taken advantage of having seen her
poor, bewildered, scared soul without its veils. But I was
curious, too; or, to render myself justice without false
modesty I was anxious; anxious to know a little
more.

I felt like a blackmailer all the same when I made my
attempt with a light-hearted remark.

"And so you gave up that walk you proposed to
take?"

"Yes, I gave up the walk," she said slowly before raising
her downcast eyes. When she did so it was with an extra-
ordinary effect. It was like catching sight of a piece of
blue sky, of a stretch of open water. And for a moment I
understood the desire of that man to whom the sea and
sky of his solitary life had appeared suddenly incomplete
without that glance which seemed to belong to them both.
He was not for nothing the son of a poet. I looked into
those unabashed eyes while the girl went on, her demure
appearance and precise tone changed to a very earnest
expression. Woman is various indeed.

"But I want you to understand, Mr. . . . "she had
actually to think of my name . . . "Mr. Marlow,
that I have written to Mrs. Fyne that I haven't been
that I have done nothing to make Captain Anthony behave
to nie as he had behaved. I haven't. I haven't. It isn't
my doing. It isn't my fault if she likes to put it in that
way. But she, with her ideas, ought to understand that I
couldn't, that I couldn't ... I know she hates me
now. I think she never liked me. I think nobody ever
cared for me. I was told once nobody could care fc~ me;
and I think it is true. At any rate I can't forget it."

244 CHANCE

Her abominable experience with the governess had
implanted in her unlucky breast a lasting doubt, an in-
eradicable suspicion of herself and of others. I said:

"Remember, Miss de Barral, that to be fair you must
trust a man altogether or not at all."

She dropped her eyes suddenly. I thought I heard a
faint sigh. I tried to take a light tone again, and yet it
seemed impossible to get off the ground which gave me my
standing with her.

"Mrs. Fyne is absurd. She's an excellent woman, but
really you could not be expected to throw away your
chance of life simply that she might cherish a good opinion
of your memory. That would be excessive."

"It was not of my life that I was thinking while Captain
Anthony was was speaking to me," said Flora de Barral
with an effort.

I told her that she was wrong then. She ought to
have been thinking of her life, and not only of her life but
of the life of the man who was speaking to her, too. She
let me finish, then shook her head impatiently.

"I mean death."

"Well," I said, "when he stood before you there, out-
side the cottage, he really stood between you and that. I
have it out of your own mouth. You can't deny it."

"If you will have it that he saved my life, then he has
got it. It was not for me. Oh, no! It was not forme
that I it was not fear! There!" She finished petu-
lantly: "And you may just as well know it."

She hung her head and swung the parasol slightly to and
fro. I thought a little.

"Do you know French, Miss de Barral?" I asked.

She made a sign with her head that she did, but without

ON THE PAVEMENT 245

showing any surprise at the question and without ceasing
to swing her parasol.

"Well, then, somehow or other I have the notion that
Captain Anthony is what the French call un galani
homme. I should like to think he is being treated as he
deserves."

The form of her lips (I could see them under the brim of
her hat) was suddenly altered into a line of seriousness.
The parasol stopped swinging.

"I have given him what he wanted that's myself,"
she said without a tremor and with a striking dignity of
tone.

Impressed by the manner and the directness of the words,
I hesitated for a moment what to say. Then made up my
mind to clear up the point.

"And you have got what you wanted? Is that it?"

The daughter of the egregious financier d e Barral did not
answer at once this question going to the heart of things.
Then raising her head and gazing wistfully across the
street, noisy with the endless transit of innumerable bar-
gains, she said with intense gravity:

"He has been most generous."

I was pleased to hear these words. Not that I doubted
the infatuation of Roderick Anthony, but I was pleased to
hear something which proved that she was sensible and
open to the sentiment of gratitude which in this case was
significant. In the face of man's desire a girl is excusable
if she thinks herself priceless. I mean a girl of our civiliza-
tion which has established a dithyrambic phraseology for
the expression of love. A man in love will accept any con-
vention exalting the object of his passion and in th:s in-
direct way his passion itself. In what way the captain of

246 CHANCE

the ship Ferndale gave proofs of lover-like lavishness I
could not guess very well. But I was glad she was appre-
ciative. It is lucky that small things please women. And
it is not silly of them to be thus pleased. It is in small
things that the deepest loyalty, that which they need most,
the loyalty of the passing moment, is best expressed.

She had remained thoughtful, letting her deep, motion-
less eyes rest on the streaming jumble of traffic. Suddenly
she said :

"And I wanted to ask you ... I was really glad
when I saw you actually here. Who would have expected
you here, at this spot, before this hotel! I certainly
never . . . You see it meant a lot to me. You are
the only person who knows . . . who knows for
certain ..."

"Knows what?" I said, not discovering at first what she
had in her mind. Then I saw it. "Why can't you leave
that alone?" I remonstrated, rather annoyed at the
invidious position she was forcing on me in a sense. "It's
true that I was the only person to see," I added. "But,
as it happens, after your mysterious disappearance I told
the Fynes the story of our meeting."

Her eyes raised to mine had an expression of dreamy,
unfathomable candour, if I dare say so. And if you won-
der what I mean I can only say that I have seen the sea
wear such an expression on one or two occasions shortly
before sunrise on a calm, fresh day. She said as if meditat-
ing aloud that she supposed the Fynes were not likely to
talk about that. She couldn't imagine any connection
in which . . . Why should they?

As her tone had become interrogatory I assented. "To
be sure. There's no reason whatever," thinking to

ON THE PAVEMENT 247

myself that they would be more likely indeed to keep quiet
about it. They had other things to talk of. And then
remembering little Fyne stuck upstairs for an unconscion-
able time, enough to blurt out everything he ever knew in
his life, I reflected that he would assume naturally that
Captain Anthony had nothing to learn from him about
Flora de Barral. It had been up to now my assumption,
too. I saw my mistake. The sincerest of women will
make no unnecessary confidences to a man. And this is as
it should be.

"No no!" I said reassuringly. "It's most unlikely.
Are you much concerned?"

"Well, you see, when I came down," she said again in
that precise demure tone, "when I came down into the
garden Captain Anthony misunderstood "

"Of course he would. Men are so conceited," I said.

I saw it well enough that he must have thought she had
come down to him. What else could he have thought?
And then he had been "gentleness itself." A new ex-
perience for that poor, delicate, and yet so resisting crea-
ture. Gentleness in passion! What could have been
more seductive to the bruised, starved heart of that girl?
Perhaps had he been violent, she might have told him that
what she came down to keep was the tryst of death not
of love. It occurred to me as I looked at her, young, frag-
ile in aspect, and intensely alive in her quietness, that
perhaps she did not know herself then what sort of tryst
she was coming down to keep.

She smiled faintly, almost awkwardly, as if she were
totally unused to smiling, at my cheap jocularity. Then she
said with that forced precision, a sort of conscious primness:

"I didn't want him to know."

848 CHANCE

I approved heartily. Quite right. Much better. Let
him ever remain under his misapprehension which was so
much more flattering for him.

I tried to keep it in the tone of comedy; but she was, I
believe, too simple to understand my intention. She went
on, looking down.

"Oh! You think so? When I saw you I didn't know
why you were here. I was glad when you spoke to me be-
cause this is exactly what I wanted to ask you for. I
wanted to ask you if you ever meet Captain Anthony
by any chance anywhere you are a sailor, too, are
you not? that you would never mention never
that that you had seen me over there."

"My dear young lady," I cried, horror-struck at the
supposition. "Why should I? What makes you think I
should dream of . . . "

She had raised her head at my vehemence. She did not
understand it. The world had treated her so dishonoura-
bly that she had no notion even of what mere decency of
feeling is^like. It was not her fault. Indeed, I don't know
why she should have put her trust in anybody's promises.
But I thought it would be better to promise. So I assured
her that she could depend on my absolute silence.

"I am not likely to ever set eyes on Captain Anthony,'*
I added with conviction as a further guarantee.

She accepted my assurance in silence, without a sign.
Her gravity had in it something acute, perhaps, because of
that chin. While we were still looking at each other she
declared :

"There's no deception in it really. I want you to
believe that if I am here, like this, to-day, it is not from
fear. It is not!"

ON THE PAVEMENT 249

"I quite understand," I said. But her firm yet self-
conscious gaze became doubtful. "I do," I insisted. "I
understand perfectly that it was not of death that you
were afraid."

She lowered her eyes slowly, and I went on:

"As to life, that's another thing. And I don't know
that one ought to blame you very much though it
seemed rather an excessive step. I wonder now if it
isn't the ugliness rather than the pain of the struggle
which ..."

She shuddered visibly: "But I do blame myself," she
exclaimed with feeling. "I am ashamed." And, drop-
ping her head, she looked in a moment the very picture of
remorse and shame.

"Well, you will be going away from all its horrors," I
said. "And surely you are not afraid of the sea. You
are a sailor's granddaughter, I understand."

She sighed deeply. She remembered her grandfather
only a little. He was a clean-shaven man with a ruddy
complexion and long, perfectly white hair. He used to
take her on his knee, and putting his face near hers, talk
to her in loving whispers. If only he were alive
now . . . !

She remained silent for a while.

"Aren't you anxious to see the ship?" I asked.

She lowered her head still more so that I could not see
anything of her face.

"I don't know," she murmured.

I had already the suspicion that she did not know her
own feelings. All this work of the merest chance had been
so unexpected, so sudden. And she had nothing to fall
back upon, no experience but such as to shake her belief

250 CHANCE

in every human being. She was dreadfully and pitifully
forlorn. It was almost in order to comfort my own
depression that I remarked cheerfully :

"Well, I know of somebody who must be growing ex-
tremely anxious to see you."

"I am before my time," she confessed simply, rousing
herself. "I had nothing to do. So I came out."

I had the sudden vision of a shabby, lonely little room
at the other end of the town. It had grown intolerable
to her restlessness. The mere thought of it oppressed her.
Flora de Barral was looking frankly at her chance con-
fidant.

"And I came this way," she went on. "I appointed the
time myself yesterday, but Captain Anthony would not
have minded. He told me he was going to look over some
business papers till I came."

The idea of the son of the poet, the rescuer of the most
forlorn damsel of modern times, the man of violence,
gentleness, and generosity, sitting up to his neck in ship's
accounts amused me. "I am sure he would not have
minded," I said, smiling. But the girPs stare was sombre,
her thin white face seemed pathetically careworn.

"I can hardly believe yet," she murmured anxiously.

"It's quite real. Never fear," I said encouragingly,
but had to change my tone at once. "You had better go
down that way a little," I directed her abruptly.

I had seen Fyne come striding out of the hotel door.
The intelligent girl, without staying to ask questions,
walked away from me quietly down one street while I
hurried on to meet Fyno coming up the other at his efficient
pedestrian gai f . MV object was to stop him getting a*

ON THE PAVEMENT 251

far as the corner. He must have been thinking too hard
1o be aware of his surroundings. I put myself in his way,
&nd he nearly walked into me.

"Hallo! "I said.

His surprise was extreme. "You here! You don't
mean to say you have been waiting for me? "

I said negligently that I had been detained by unex-
pected business in the neighbourhood, and thus happened
to catch sight of him coming out.

He stared at me with solemn distraction, obviously
thinking of something else. I suggested that he had better
take the next city-ward tramcar. He was inattentive,
and I perceived that he was profoundly perturbed. As
Miss de Barral (she had moved out of sight) could not
possibly approach the hotel door as long as we remained
where we were, I proposed that we should wait for the car
on the other side of the street. He obeyed rather the
slight touch on his arm than my words, and while we were
crossing the wide roadway in the midst of the lumbering
wheeled traffic, he exclaimed in his deep tone, "I don't
know which of these two is more mad than the other."

"Really!" I said, pulling him forward from under the
noses of two enormous sleepy-headed cart-horses. He
skipped wildly out of the way and up on the curbstone
with a purely instinctive precision; his mind had nothing
to do with his movements. In the middle of his leap,
and while in the act of sailing gravely through the air, he
continued to relieve his outraged feelings.

"You would never believe! They are mad!"

I took care to place myself in such a position that to
face me he had to turn his back on the hotel across the
road. I believe he was glad I was there to talk to. But

252 CHANCE

I thought there was some misapprehension in the first
statement he shot out at me without loss of time, that
Captain Anthony had been glad to see him. It was indeed
difficult to believe that, directly he opened the door, his
wife's "sailor-brother" had positively shouted: "Oh, it's
you! The very man I wanted to see."

"I found him sitting there," went on Fyne impressively
in his effortless, grave chest voice, "drafting his will."

This was unexpected, but I preserved a non-committal
attitude, knowing full well that our actions in themselves
are neither mad nor sane. But I did not see what there
was to be excited about. And Fyne was distinctly ex-
cited. I understood it better when I learned that the
captain of the Ferndale wanted little Fyne to be one
of the trustees. He was leaving everything to his wife.
Naturally, a request which involved him into sanction-
ing in a way a proceeding which he had been sent by
his wife to oppose, must have appeared sufficiently
mad to Fyne.

"Me! Me, of all people in the world!" he repeated
portentously. But I could see that he was frightened.
Such want of tact!

"He knew I came from his sister. You don't put a man
into such an awkward position," complained Fyne. "It
made me speak much more strongly against all this very
painful business than I would have had the heart to do
otherwise."

I pointed out to him concisely, and keeping my eyes on
the door of the hotel, that he and his wife were the only
bond with the land Captain Anthony had. Who else
could he have asked?

"I explained to him that he was breaking this bond/'

ON THE PAVEMENT 253

declared Fyne solemnly. "Breaking it onc-e for all. And
for what for what? "

He glared at me. I could perhaps have given him
an inkling for what, but I said nothing. He started
again:

"My wife assures me that the girl does not love him a,
bit. She'goes by that letter she received from her. There
is a passage in it where she practically admits that she
was quite unscrupulous in accepting this offer of marriage,
but says to my wife that she supposes she, my wife, will not
blame her as it was in self-defence. My wife has her
own ideas, but this is an outrageous misapprehension of
her views. Outrageous."

The good little man paused and then added weightily :

"I didn't tell that to my brother-in-law I mean, my
wife's views."

"No," I said. "What would have been the good?"

"It's positive infatuation," agreed little Fyne, in the
tone as though he had made an awful discovery. " I have
never seen anything so hopeless and inexplicable in my
life. I I felt quite frightened and sorry," he added,
while I looked at him curiously asking myself whether this
excellent civil servant and notable pedestrian had felt the
breath of a great and fatal love-spell passing him by in the
room of that East-end hotel. He did look for a momentjas
though he had seen a ghost, an other-world thing. But
that look vanished instantaneously, and he nodded at me
with mere exasperation at something quite of this world
whatever it was. "It's a bad business. My brother-in-
law knows nothing of women," he cried with an air of
profound, experienced wisdom.

What he imagined he knew of women himself I can't

254 CHANCE

tell. I did not know anything of the opportunities he
might have had. But this is a subject which if approached
with undue solemnity is apt to elude one's grasp entirely.
No doubt Fyne knew something of a woman who was
Captain Anthony's sister. But that, admittedly, had
been a very solemn study. I smiled at him gently, and as
if encouraged or provoked, he completed his thought
rather explosively.

"And that girl understands nothing. . . . It's
sheer lunacy."

"I don't know," I said, " whether the circumstances of
isolation at sea would be any alleviation to the danger.
But it's certain that they shall have the opportunity to
learn everything about each other in a lonely tete-a-tete."

"But dash it all," he cried in hollow accents which at
the same time had the tone of bitter irony I had never
before heard a sound so quaintly ugly and almost hor-
rible "You forget Mr. Smith."

"What Mr. Smith?" I asked innocently.

Fyne made an extraordinary simiesque grimace. I be-
lieve it was quite involuntary, but you know that a grave,
much-lined, shaven countenance when distorted in an
unusual way is extremely apelike. It was a surprising
sight, and rendered me not only speechless but stopped
the progress of my thought completely. I must have pre-
sented a remarkably imbecile appearance.

"My brother-in-law considered it amusing to chaff me
about us introducing the girl as Miss Smith," said Fyne,
going surly in a moment. " He said that perhaps if he had
heard her real name from the first it might have restrained
him. As it was, he made the discovery too late. Asked
me to tell Zoe this, together with a lot more nonsense."

ON THE PAVEMENT 255

Fyne gave me the impression of having escaped from a
man inspired by a grimly playful ebullition of high spirits.
It must have been most distasteful to him; and his
solemnity got damaged somehow in the process, I per-
ceived. There were holes in it through which I could see
a new, an unknown Fyne.

"You wouldn't believe it," he went on, "but she looks
upon her father exclusively as a victim. I don't know,"
he burst out suddenly through an enormous rent in his
solemnity, "if she thinks him absolutely a saint, but she
certainly imagines him to be a martyr."

It is one of the advantages of that magnificent invention,
the prison, that you may forget people which are put
there as though they were dead. One needn't worry
about them. Nothing can happen to them that you can
help. They can do nothing which might possibly matter
to anybody. They come out of it, though, but that seems
hardly an advantage to themselves or any one else. I had
completely forgotten the financier de Barral. The girl for
me was an orphan, but now I perceived suddenly the force
of Fyne's qualifying statement, "to a certain extent." It
would have been infinitely more kind all round for the law
to have shot, beheaded, strangled, or otherwise destroyed
this absurd de Barral, who was a danger to a moral world
inhabited by a credulous multitude not fit to take care of
itself. But I observed to Fyne that, however insane was
the view she held, one could not declare the girl mad on
that account.

" So she thinks of her father does she? I suppose she
would appear to us saner if she thought only of herself."

"I am positive," Fyne said earnestly, "that she went
and made desperate eyes at Anthony , . . "

856 CHANCE

"Oh, come!" I interrupted. "You haven't seen her
make eyes. You don't know the colour of her eyes."

"Very well! It don't matter. But it could hardly
have come to that if she hadn't. . . . It's all one,
though. I tell you she has led him on, or accepted him, if
you like, simply because she was thinking of her father.
She doesn't care a bit about Anthony, I believe. She
cares for no one. Never cared for any one. Ask Zoe.
For myself I don't blame her," added Fyne, giving me
another view of unsuspected things through the rags and
tatters of his damaged solemnity. "No! by heavens, I
don't blame her the poor devil."

I agreed with him silently. I suppose affections are, in
a sense, to be learned. If there exists a native spark of
love in all of us, it must be fanned while we are young.
Hers, if she ever had it, had been drenched in as ugly a lot
of corrosive liquid as could be imagined. But I was sur-
prised at Fyne obscurely feeling this.

"She loves no one except that preposterous advertising
shark," he pursued venomously, but in a more deliberate
manner. "And Anthony knows it."

"Does he?" I said doubtfully.

"She's quite capable of having told him herself,"
affirmed Fyne, with amazing insight. "But whether or
no, I've told him."

"You did? From Mrs. Fyne, of course."

Fyne only blinked owlishly at this piece of my insight.

"And how did Captain Anthony receive this interesting
information?" I asked further.

"Most improperly," said Fyne, who really was in a
state in which he didn't mind what he blurted out. "He
isn't himself. He begged me to tell his sister that he

ON THE PAVEMENT 257

offered no remarks on her conduct. Very improper and
inconsequent. He said. ... I was tired of this
wrangling. I told him I made allowances for the state
of excitement he was in."

"You know, Fyne," I said, "a man in jail seems to
me such an incredible, cruel, nightmarish sort of thing
that I can hardly believe in his existence. Certainly not
in relation to any other existences."

"But dash it all," cried Fyne, "he isn't shut up for
life. They are going to let him out. He's coming out!
That's the whole trouble. What is he coming out to, I
want to know? It seems a more cruel business than the
shutting him up was. This has been the worry for weeks.
Do you see now?"

I saw all sorts of things! Immediately before me I
saw the excitement of little Fyne mere food for wonder.
Further off, in a sort of gloom and beyond the light of day
and the movement of the street, I saw the figure of a man,
stiff like a ramrod, moving with small steps, a slight girlish
figure by his side. And the gloom was like the gloom of
villainous slums, of misery, of wretchedness, of a starved
and degraded existence. It was a relief that I could see
only their shabby, hopeless backs. He was an awful
ghost. But indeed to call him a ghost was only a refine-
ment of polite speech, and a manner of concealing one's
terror of such things. Prisons are wonderful contrivances.
Shut open. Very neat. Shut open. And out
comes some sort of corpse, to wander awfully in a world in
which it has no possible connections and carrying with it
the appalling, tainted atmosphere of its silent abode.
Marvellous arrangement. It works automatically, and,
when you look at it, the perfection makes you sick, which

258 CHANCE

for a mere mechanism is no mean triumph. Sick and
scared. It had nearly scared that poor girl to her death.
Fancy having to take such a thing by the hand ! Now I
understood the remorseful strain I had detected in her
speeches.

"By Jove!" I said. "They are about to let him out!
I never thought of that."

Fyne was contemptuous either of me or of things at
large.

"You didn't suppose he was to be kept in jail for life?"

At that moment I caught sight of Flora de Barral at
the junction of the two streets. Then some vehicles
following each other in quick succession hid from niy
sight the black slight figure with just a touch of colour in
her hat. She was walking slowly; and it might have been
caution or reluctance. While listening to Fyne I stared
hard past his shoulder trying to catch sight of her again.
He was going on with positive heat, the rags of his solem-
nity dropping off him at every second sentence.

That was just it. His wife and he had been perfectly
aware of it. Of course the girl never talked of her father
with Mrs. Fyne. I suppose with her theory of innocence
she found it difficult. But she must have been thinking
of it day and night. What to do with him? Where to
go? How to keep body and soul together? He had
never made any friends. The only relations were the
atrocious East-end cousins. We know what they were.
Nothing but wretchedness, whichever way she turned
in an unjust and prejudiced world. And to look at him
helplessly she felt would be too much for her.

I won't say I was thinking these thoughts. It was not
necessary. This complete knowledge was in my head

ON THE PAVEMENT 259

while I stared hard across the wide road, so hard that I
failed to hear little Fyne till he raised his deep voice
indignantly,

" I don't blame the girl/' he was saying. "He is infatu-
ated with her. Anybody can see that. Why she should
have got such a hold on him I can't understand. She said
"Yes" to him only for the sake of that fatuous, swindling
father of hers. It's perfectly plain if one thinks it over a
moment. One needn't even think of it. We have it
under her own hand. In that letter to my wife she says she
has acted unscrupulously. She has owned up, then, for
what else can it mean, I should like to know. And so they
are to be married before that old idiot comes out. . .
He will be surprised," commented Fyne suddenly in a
strangely malignant tone. "He shall be met at the jail
door by a Mrs. Anthony, a Mrs. Captain Anthony. Very
pleasant for Zoe. And for all I know, my brother-in-law
means to turn up dutifully, too. A little family event.
It's extremely pleasant to think of. Delightful. A charm-
ing family party* We three against the world and
all that sort of thing. And what for. For a girl that
doesn't care twopence for him."

The demon of bitterness had entered into little Fyne.
He amazed me as though he had changed his skin from
white to black. It was quite as wonderful. And he kept
it up, too.

"Luckily there are some advantages in the the pro*
fession of a sailor. As long as they defy the world away
at sea somewhere eighteen thousand miles from here, I
don't mind so much. I wonder what that interesting old
party will say. He will have another surprise. They
mean to drag him along with them on board the ship

260 CHANCE

straight away. Rescue work. Just think of Roderick
Anthony, the son of a gentleman, after all ... "

He gave me a little shock. I thought he was going
to say the "son of the poet" as usual; but his mind was
not running on such vanities now. His unspoken thought
must have gone on "and uncle of my girls/' I suspect
that he had been roughly handled by Captain Anthony up
there, and the resentment gave a tremendous fillip to
the slow play of his wits. Those men of sober fancy,
when anything rouses their imaginative faculty, are
very thorough. "Just think!" he cried. "The three of
them crowded into a four-wheeler, and Anthony sitting
deferentially opposite that astonished old jail-bird!"

The good little man laughed. An improper sound it
was to come from his manly chest; and what made it
worse was the thought that for the least thing, by a mere
hair's breadth, he might have taken this affair sentimen-
tally. But clearly Anthony was no diplomatist. His
brother-in-law must have appeared to him, to use the
language of shore people, a perfect philistine with a heart
like a flint. What Fyne precisely meant by "wrangling"
I don't know, but I had no doubt that these two had
"wrangled" to a profoundly disturbing extent. How much
the other was affected I could not even imagine; but
the man before me was quite amazingly upset.

"In a four-wheeler! Take him on board!" I muttered,
startled by the change in Fyne.

"That's the plan nothing less. If I am to believe
what I have been told his feet will scarcely touch the
ground between the prison-gates and the deck of that
ship."

The transformed Fyne spoke in a forcibly lowered

ON THE PAVEMENT 261

tone which I heard without difficulty. The rumbling,
composite noises of the street were hushed for a moment,
during one of these sudden breaks in the traffic as if the
stream of commerce had dried up at its source. Having
an unobstructed view past Fyne's shoulder, I was aston-
ished to see that the girl was still there. I thought she had
gone up long before. But there was her black slender
figure, her white face under the roses of her hat. She
stood on the edge of the pavement as people stand on the
bank of a stream, very still, as if waiting or as if uncon-
scious of where she was. The three dismal, sodden
loafers (I could see them, too; they hadn't budged an inch)
seemed to me to be watching her. Which was horrible.

Meantime Fyne was telling me rather remarkable
things for him. He declared first it was a mercy in a
sense. Then he asked me if it were not real madness to
saddle one's existence with such a perpetual reminder.
The daily existence. The isolated, sea-bound existence.
To bring such an additional strain into the solitude already
trying enough for two people was the craziest thing.
Undesirable relations were bad enough on shore. One
could cut them or at least forget their existence now and
then. He himself was preparing to forget his brother-in-
law's existence as much as possible.

That was the general sense of his remarks, not his exact
words. I thought that his wife's brother's existence had
never been very embarrassing to him, but that now of
course he would have to abstain from his allusions to the
"son of the poet you know." I said "yes, yes" in the
pauses because I did not want him to turn round; and all
the time I was watching the girl intently. I thought
I knew now what she meant with her "He was most

262 CHANCE

generous." Yes. Generosity of character may carry a
man through any situation. But why didn't she go then
to her generous man? Why stand there as if clinging to
this solid earth, which she surely hated as one must hate
the place where one has been tormented, hopeless, un-
happy? Suddenly she stirred. Was she going to cross
over? No. She turned and began to walk slowly close to
the curbstone, reminding me of the time when I discovered
her walking near the edge of a ninety -foot sheer drop. It
was the same impression, the same carriage, straight,
slim, with rigid head and the two hands hanging lightly
clasped in front only now a small sunshade was dang-
ling from them. I saw something fateful in that deliberate
pacing toward the inconspicuous door with the words
Hotel Entrance on the glass panels.

She was abreast of it now and I thought that she would
stop again ; but no ! She swerved rigidly at the moment
there was no one near her; she had that bit of pave-
ment to herself with inanimate slowness as if moved by
s Hnething outside herself.

"A confounded convict," Fyne burst out.

With the sound of that word offending my ears I saw the
girl extend her arm, push the door open a little way, and
glide in. I saw plainly that movement, the hand put out
in advance with the gesture of a sleep-walker.

She had vanished, her black figure had melted in the
darkness of the open door. For some time Fyne said
nothing; and I thought of the girl going upstairs, appear-
ing before the man. Were they looking at each other in
silence and feeling they were alone in the world as lovers
should at the moment of meeting? But that fine forget-
fulness was surely impossible to Anthony, the seaman,

ON THE PAVEMENT 263

directly after the wrangling interview with Fyne the
emissary of an order of things which stops at the edge of
the sea. How much he was disturbed I couldn't tell
because I did not know what that impetuous lover had
had to listen to.

"Going to take the old fellow to sea with them," I said.
"Well I really don't see what else they could have done
with him. You told your brother-in-law what you
thought of it? I wonder how he took it."

"Very improperly," repeated Fyne. "His manner was
offensive, derisive, from the first. I don't mean he was
actually rude in words. Hang it all, I am not a con-
temptible ass. But he was exulting at having got hold of
a miserable girl."

"It is pretty certain that she will be much less poor and
miserable," I murmured.

It looked as if the exultation of Captain Anthony had
got on Fyne's nerves. "I told the fellow very plainly that
he was abominably selfish in this," he affirmed unexpect-
edly.

"You did? Selfish!" I said rather taken aback.
"But what if the girl thought that, on the contrary, he was
most generous."

"What do you know about it?" growled Fyne. The
rents and slashes of his solemnity were closing up gradually,
but it was going to be a surly solemnity. "Generosity!
I am disposed to give it another name. No. Not folly,"
he shot out at me as though I had meant to interrupt him.
"Still another. Something worse. I need not tell you
what it is," he added with grim meaning.

"Certainly. You needn't unless you like," T said
blankly. Little Fyne had never interested me so much

264 CHANCE

since the beginning of the de Barral-Anthony affair when I
first perceived possibilities in him. The possibilities of
dull men are exciting because when they happen they
suggest legendary cases of "possession," not exactly by
the devil, but, anyhow, by a strange spirit.

"I told him it was a shame," said Fyne. "Even if the
girl did make eyes at him but I think with you that she
did not. Yes! A shame to take advantage of a girl's
distress a girl that does not love him in the least."

"You think it's so bad as that?" I said. " Because
you know I don't."

"What can you think about it?" he retorted on me with
a solemn stare. "I go by her letter to my wife."

"Ah! that famous letter. But you haven't actually
read it," I said.

"No, but my wife told me. Of course it was a most
improper sort of letter to write considering the circum-
stances. It pained Mrs. Fyne to discover how thoroughly
she had been misunderstood. But what is written is not
all. It's what my wife could read between the lines. She
says that the girl is really terrified at heart."

"She had not much in life to give her any very special
courage for it, or any great confidence in mankind, that's
very true. But this seems an exaggeration."

"I should like to know what reason you have to say
that," asked Fyne with offended solemnity. "I really
don't see any. But I had sufficient authority to tell my
brother-in-law that if he thought he was going to do some-
thing chivalrous and fine he was mistaken. I can see very
well that he will do everything she asks him to do but,
all the same, it is rather a pitiless transaction."

For a moment I felt it might be so. Fyne caught sight

ON THE PAVEMENT 265

of an approaching tramcar and stepped out on the road
to meet it. "Have you a more compassionate scheme
ready?'' I called after him. He made no answer, clam-
bered on to the rear platform, and only then looked back.
We exchanged a perfunctory wave of the hand. We also
looked at each other, he rather angrily, I fancy, and I
with wonder. I may also mention that it was for the
last time. From that day I never set eyes on the Fynes.
As usual the unexpected happened to me. It had nothing
to do with Flora de Barral. The fact is that I went away.
My call was not like her call. Mine was not urged on me
with passionate vehemence or tender gentleness made all
the finer and more compelling by the allurements of
generosity, which is a virtue as mysterious as any other
but having a glamour of its own. No, it was just a
prosaic offer of employment on rather good terms which,
with a sudden sense of having wasted my time on shore
long enough, I accepted without misgivings. And once
started out of my indolence I went, as my habit was, very,
very far away and for a long, long time. Which is another
proof of my indolence. How far Flora went I can't say.
But I will tell you my idea: my idea is that she went as far
as she was able as far as she could bear it as far as
she had to. ... "

PART II
THE KNIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

THE "FERNDALE"

I HAVE said that the story of Flora de Barral was im-
parted to me in stages. At this stage I did not see
Marlow for some time. At last, one evening rather
early, very soon after dinner, he turned up in my rooms.

I had been waiting for his call primed with a remark
which had not occurred to me till after he had gone away.

"I say," I tackled him at once, "how can you be
certain that Flora de Barral ever went to sea? After all,
the wife of the captain of the Ferndale "the lady that
mustn't be disturbed" of the old ship-keeper may not
have been Flora."

"Well, I do know," he said, "if only because I have
been keeping in touch with Mr. Powell."

"You have?" I cried. "This is the first I heard of it.
And since when?"

" Why, since the first day. You went up to town leaving
me in the inn. I slept ashore. In the morning Mr.
Powell came in for breakfast; and after the first awkward-
ness of meeting a man you have been yarning with over-
night had worn off, we discovered a liking for each other."

As I had discovered the fact of their mutual liking before
either of them, I was not surprised.

"And so you kept in touch," I said.

"It was not so very difficult. As he was always knock-
ing about the river I hired Dingle's sloop-rigged three-

269

270 CHANCE

tonner to be more on an equality. Powell was friendly
but elusive. I don't think he ever wanted to avoid me.
But it is a fact that he used to disappear out of the river in
a very mysterious manner sometimes. A man may land
anywhere and bolt inland but what about his five-ton
cutter? You can't carry that in your hand like a suit-case.

"Then as suddenly he would reappear in the river,
after one had given him up. I did not like to be beaten.
That's why I hired Dingle's decked boat. There was just
the accommodation in her to sleep a man and a dog. But
I had no dog-friend to invite. Fyne's dog who saved
Flora de Barral's life is the last dog-friend I had. I was
rather lonely cruising about; but that, too, on the river has
its charm, sometimes. I chased the mystery of the van*
ishing Powell dreamily, looking about me at the ships,
thinking of the girl Flora, of life's chances and, do you
know, it was very simple."

"What was very simple?" I asked innocently.

"The mystery."

"They generally are that," I said.

Marlow eyed me for a moment in a peculiar manner.

"Well, I have discovered the mystery of Powell's dis-
appearances. The fellow used to run into one of these
narrow tidal creeks on the Essex shore. These creeks are
so inconspicuous that till I had studied the chart pretty
carefully I did not know of their existence. One .if ternoon,,
I made Powell's boat out, heading into the shore. By the
time I got close to the mud-flat his craft had disappeared
inland. But I could see the mouth of the creek by then.
The tide being on the turn I took the risk of getting stu< k
in the mud suddenly and headed in. All I had to guide
me was the top of the roof of some sort of small building.

THE "FERNDALE" 271

I got in more by good luck than by good management.
The sun had set some time before; my boat glided in a
sort of winding ditch between two low grassy banks; on
both sides of me was the flatness of the Essex marsh,
perfectly still. All I saw moving was a heron; he was
flying low, and disappeared in the murk. Before I had
gone half a mile, I was up with the building the roof of
which I had seen from the river. It looked like a small
barn. A row of piles driven into the soft bank in front of
it and supporting a few planks made a sort of wharf. All
this was black in the falling dusk, and I could just distin-
guish the whitish ruts of a cart-track stretching over the
marsh toward the higher land, far away. Not a sound was
to be heard. Against the low streak of light in the sky I
could see the mast of Powell's cutter moored to the bank
some twenty yards, no more, beyond that black barn or
whatever it was. I hailed him with a loud shout. Got
no answer. After making fast my boat just astern, I
walked along the bank to have a look at Powell's. Being
so much bigger than mine she was aground already. Her
sails were furled; the slide of her scuttle hatch was closed
ind padlocked. Powell was gone. He had walked off
into that dark, still marsh somewhere. I had not seen a
single house anywhere near; there did not seem to be any
human habitation for miles; and now as darkness fell
denser over the land I couldn't see the glimmer of a single
light. However, I supposed that there must be some
\illage or hamlet not very far away; or only one of these
mysterious little inns one comes upon sometimes in most
unexpected and lonely places.

"The stillness was oppressive. I went back to my boat,
made some coffee over a spirit-lamp, devoured a few

272 CHANCE

biscuits, and stretched myself aft, to smoke and gaze at
the stars. The earth was a mere shadow, formless and
silent, and empty, till a bullock turned up from somewhere,
quite shadowy, too. He came smartly to the very edge of
the bank as though he meant to step on board, stretched
his muzzle right over my boat, blew heavily once, and
walked off contemptuously into the darkness from which
he had come. I had not expected a call from a bullock,
though a moment's thought would have shown me that
there must be lots of cattle and sheep on that marsh.
Then everything became still as before. I might have
imagined myself arrived on a desert island. In fact, as I
reclined smoking a sense of absolute loneliness grew on me.
And just as it had become intense, very abruptly and with-
out any preliminary sound,! heard firm, quick footsteps on
the little wharf. Somebody coming along the cart-track
had just stepped at a swinging gait on to the planks.
That somebody could only have been Mr. Powell. Sud-
denly he stopped short, having made out that there were
two masts alongside the bank where he had left only one.
Then he came on silent on the grass. When I spoke to
him he was astonished.

'"Who would have thought of seeing you here!' he
exclaimed, after returning my good evening.

"I told him I had run in for company. It was rigor-
ously true.

" * You knew I was here?' he exclaimed.

" 'Of course/ I said. *I tell you I came in for com-
pany/

"He is a really good fellow/' went on Marlow. "And
his capacity for astonishment is quickly exhausted, it
seems. It was in the most matter-of-fact manner that he

THE "FERNDALE" 273

said, 'Come on board of me, then; I have here enough
supper for two.' He was holding a bulky parcel in the
crook of his arm. I did not wait to be asked twice, as you
may guess. His cutter has a very neat little cabin, quite
big enough for two men not only to sleep but to sit and
smoke in. We left the scuttle wide open, of course. As to
his provisions for supper, they were not of a luxurious kind.
He complained that the shops in the village were miserable.
There was a big village within a mile and a half. It
struck me he had been very long doing his shopping; but
naturally I made no remark. I didn't want to talk at all
except for the purpose of setting him going."

"And did you set him going?" I asked.

"I did," said Marlow, composing his features into an
impenetrable expression which somehow assured me of his
success better than an air of triumph could have done.

"You made him talk? " I said after a silence.

" Yes, I made him . . . about himself."

"And to the point?"

"If you mean by this," said Marlow, " that it was about
the voyage of the Ferndale, then again, yes. I brought
him to talk about that voyage, which, by the by, was not
the first voyage of Flora de Barral. The man himself,
as I told you, is simple, and his faculty of wonder not
very great. He's one of those people who form no
theories about facts. Straightforward people seldom do.
Neither have they much penetration. But in this case
it did not matter. I we have already the inner
knowledge. We know the history of Flora de Barral.
We know something of Captain Anthony. We have the
secret of the situation. The man was intoxicated with the

274 CHANCE

pity and tenderness of his part. Oh, yes! Intoxicated is
not too strong a word; for you know that love and desire
take many disguises. I believe that the girl had been
frank with him, with the frankness of women to whom
perfect frankness is impossible, because so much of their
safety depends on judicious reticences. I am not indulg-
ing in cheap sneers. There is necessity in these things.
And, moreover, she could not have spoken with a certain
voice in the face of his impetuosity, because she did not
have time to understand either the state of her feelings or
the precise nature of what she was doing.

"Had she spoken ever so clearly he was, I take it, too
elated to hear her distinctly. I don't mean to imply that
he was a fool. Oh, dear no ! But he had no training in the
usual conventions, and we must remember that he had no
experience whatever of women. He could only have an
ideal conception of his position. An ideal is often but a
flaming vision of reality.

"To him enters Fyne, wound up, if I may express myself
so irreverently, wound up to a high pitch by his wife's
interpretation of the girl's leller. He enters with his talk
of meanness and cruelty, like a bucket of water on the
flame. Clearly a shock. But the effects of a bucket of
water arc diverse. They depend on the kind of flame. A
mere blaze of dry straw, of course . . . but there can
be no question of straw there. Anthony of the Ferndale
was not, could not have been, a straw-stuffed specimen of
a man. There are flames a bucket of water sends leaping
sky-high.

" We may wonder what happened when, after Fyne
had left him, the hesitating girl went up at last and opened
the door of that room where our man, T am certain, was not

THE "FERNDALE" 275

extinguished. Oh, no ! Nor cold ; whatever else he might
have been.

" It is conceivable he might have cried at her in the first
moment of humiliation, of exasperation, *Oh, it's you!
Why are you here? If I am so odious to you that you
must write to my sister to say so, I give you back your
word.' But then, don't you see, it could not have been
that. I have the practical certitude that soon afterward
they went together in a hansom to see the ship as agreed.
That was my reason for saying that Flora de Barral did
go to sea. . . ."

"Yes. It seems conclusive/ 1 I agreed. "But even
without that if, as you seem to think, the very desola-
tion of that girlish figure had a sort of perversely seductive
charm, making its way through his compassion to his
senses (and everything is possible) then such words
could not have been spoken."

"They might have escaped him involuntarily," observed
Mario w. "However, a plain fact settles it. They went
off together to see the ship."

"Do you conclude from this that nothing whatever was
said?" I inquired.

"I should have liked to see the first meeting of their
glances upstairs there," mused Marlow. "And perhaps
nothing was said. But no man comes out of such a
'wrangle' (as Fyne called it) without showing some traces
of it. And you may be sure that a girl so bruised all over
would feel the slightest touch of anything resembling
coldness. She was mistrustful ; she could not be otherwise,
for the energy of evil is so much more forcible than the
energy of good that she could not help looking sti!l upon
her abominable governess as an authority. How could

276 CHANCE

one have expected her to throw off the unholy prestige of
that long domination? She could not help believing what
she had been told ; that she was, in some mysterious way,
odious and unlovable. It was cruelly true to her. The
oracle of so many years had spoken finally. Only other
people did not find her out at once .... I would
not go so far as to say she believed it altogether. That
would be hardly possible. But then haven't the most
flattered, the most conceited of us their moments of doubt?
Haven't they? Well, I don't know. There may be
lucky beings in this world unable to believe any evil of
themselves. For my own part I'll tell you that once,
many years ago now, it came to my knowledge that a
fellow I had been mixed up with in a certain transaction
a clever fellow whom I really despised was going
around telling people that I was a consummate hypocrite.
He could know nothing of it. It suited his humour to say
so. I had given him no ground for that particular cal-
umny. Yet to this day there are moments when it comes
into my mind, and involuntarily I ask myself, 'What if it
were true? * It's absurd, but it has on one or two occasions
nearly affected my conduct. And yet I was not an im-
pressionable, ignorant young girl. I had taken the exact
measure of the fellow's utter worthlessness long before.
He had never been for me a person of prestige and power,
like that awful governess to Flora de Barral. See the
might of suggestion? We live at the mercy of a malevo-
lent word. A sound, a mere disturbance of the air, sinks
into our very soul sometimes. Flora de Barral was more
astounded than convinced by the first impetuosity of
Roderick Anthony. She let herself be carried along by a
mysterious force which her person had called into being,

THE "FERNDALE" 277

as her father had been carried away out of his depth by the
unexpected power of successful advertising.

"They went on board that morning. The Ferndale had
just come to her loading berth. The only living creature
on board was the ship-keeper whether the same who
had been described to us by Mr. Powell, or another, I
don't know. Possibly some other man. He, looking
over the side, saw, in his own words, 'the Captain come
sailing round the corner of the nearest cargo-shed, in
company with a girl.' He lowered the accommodation
ladder down on to the jetty ..."

"How do you know all this?" I interrupted.

Marlow interjected an impatient:

"You shall see by and by. . . . Flora went up first,
got down on deck, and stood stock-still till the captain
took her by the arm and led her aft. The ship-keeper
let them into the saloon. He had the koys of all the
cabins, and stumped in after them. The captain ordered
him to open all the doors, every blessed door; staterooms,
passages, pantry, fore-cabin; and then sent him away.

The Ferndale had magnificent accommodation. At
the end of a passage leading from the quarter-deck there
was a long saloon, its sumptuosity slightly tarnished, per-
haps, but having a grand air of roominess and comfort.
The harbour carpets were down, the swinging lamps
hung, and everything in its place, even to the silver on
the sideboard. Two large stern cabins opened out of it,
one on each side of the rudder casing. These two cabins
communicated through a small bathroom between them,
and one was fitted up as the captain's stateroom. The
other was vacant, and furnished with arm-chairs and a
round table, more like a room on shore, except for the

278 CHANCE

long curved settee following the shape of the ship's stern.
In a dim inclined mirror, Flora caught sight down to the
waist of a pale-faced girl in a white straw hat trimmed
with roses, distant, shadowy, as if immersed in water,
and was surprised to recognize herself in those surround-
ings. They seemed to her arbitrary, bizarre, strange.
Captain Anthony moved on, and she followed him. He
showed her the other cabins. He talked all the time
loudly in a voice she seemed to have known extremely well
for a long time; and yet, she reflected, she had not heard
it often in her life. What he was saying she did not quite
follow. He was speaking of comparatively indifferent
things in a rather moody tone, but she felt it round her like
a caress. And when he stopped she could hear, alarming
in the sudden silence, the precipitated beating of her heart.
The ship-keeper dodged about the quarter-deck, out of
hearing, and trying to keep out of sight. At the same
time, taking advantage of the open doors with skill and
prudence, he could see the captain and "that girl" the
captain had brought aboard. The captain was showing
her round very thoroughly. Through the whole length of
the passage, far away aft in the perspective of the saloon,
the ship-keeper had interesting glimpses of them as they
went in and out of the various cabins, crossing from side
to side, remaining invisible for a time in one or another
of the staterooms, and then reappearing again in the
distance. The girl, always following the captain, had her
sunshade in her hands. Mostly she would hang her head,
but now and then she would look up. They had a lot to
say to each other, and seemed to forget they weren't alone
in the ship. He saw the captain put his hand on her
shoulder, and was preparing himself with a certain zest for

THE "FERNDALE" 279

what might follow, when the "old man" seemed to recol-
lect himself, and came striding down all the length of the
saloon. At this move the ship-keeper promptly dodged
out of sight, as you may believe, and heard the captain
slam the inner door of the passage. After that disap-
pointment the ship-keeper waited resentfully for them to
clear out of the ship. It happened much sooner than he
had expected. The girl walked out on deck first. As
before, she did not look round. She didn't look at any-
thing; and she seemed to be in such a hurry to get ashore
that she made for the gangway and started down the
ladder without waiting for the captain.

What struck the ship-keeper most was the absent, un-
seeing expression of the captain, striding after the girl.
He passed him, the ship-keeper, without notice, without
an order, without so much as a look. The captain had
never done so before. Always had a nod and a pleasant
word for a man. From this slight the ship-keeper drew a
conclusion unfavourable to the strange girl. He gave
them time to get down on the wharf before crossing the
deck to steal one more look at the pair over the rail. The
captain took hold of the girl's arm just before a couple of
railway trucks drawn by a horse came rolling along and
hid them from the ship-keeper's sight for good.

Next day, when the chief mate joined the ship, he told
him the tale of the visit, and expressed himself about the
girl "who had got hold of the captain" disparagingly.
She didn't look healthy, he explained. "Shabby clothes,
too," he added spitefully.

The mate was much interested. He had been with
Anthony for several years, and had won for himself m the
course of many long voyages a footing of familiarity,

280 CHANCE

which was to be expected with a man of Anthony's charac-
ter. But in that slowly grown intimacy of the sea, which
in its duration and solitude had its unguarded moments,
no words had passed, even of the most casual, to prepare
him for the vision of his captain associated with any kind
of girl. His impression had been that women did not exist
for Captain Anthony. Exhibiting himself with a girl ! A
girl! What did he want with a girl? Bringing her on
board and showing her round the cabin ! That was really
a little bit too much. Captain Anthony ought to have
known better.

Franklin (the chief mate's name was Franklin) felt dis-
appointed; almost disillusioned. Silly thing to do! Here
was a confounded old ship-keeper set talking. He snubbed
the ship-keeper, and tried to think of that insignificant
bit of foolishness no more; for it diminished Captain
Anthony in his eyes of a. jealously devoted subordinate.

Franklin was over forty; his mother was still alive.
She stood in the forefront of all women for him, just as
Captain Anthony stood in the forefront of all men. We
may suppose that these groups were not very large. He
had gone to sea at a very early age. The feeling which
caused these two people to partly eclipse the rest of man-
kind were of course not similar; though in time he had
acquired the conviction that he was "taking care" of
them both. The "old lady" of course had to be looked
after as long as she lived. In regard to Captain Anthony,
he used to say that: why should he leave him? It wasn't
likely that he would come across a better sailor or a better
man or a more comfortable ship. As to trying to better
himself in the way of promotion, commands were not the
gort of thing one picked up in the streets, and when it came

THE "FERNDALE" 281

to that, Captain Anthony was as likely to give him a lift on
occasion as any one in the world.

From Mr. Powell's description Franklin was a short*
thick, black-haired man, bald on the top. His head sunk
between the shoulders, his staring prominent eyes and a
florid colour gave him a rather apoplectic appearance.
In repose, his congested face had a humorously melan-
choly expression.

The ship-keeper having given him up all the keys and
having been chased forward with the admonition to mind
his own business and not to chatter about what did not
concern him, Mr. Franklin went under the poop. He
opened one door after another, and, in the saloon, in the
captain's stateroom and everywhere, he stared anxiously
as if expecting to see on the bulkheads, on the deck, in the
air, something unusual sign, mark, emanation, shadow
he hardly knew what some subtle change wrought
by the passage of a girl. But there was nothing. He
entered the unoccupied stern cabin and spent some time
there unscrewing the two stern ports. In the absence
of all material evidences his uneasiness was passing away ,
With a last glance round he came out and found himself in
the presence of his captain advancing from the other end
of the saloon.

Franklin at once looked for the girl. She wasn't to be
seen. The captain came up quickly. "Oh! you are here,
Mr. Franklin." And the mate said, "I was giving a little
air to the place, sir." Then the captain, his hat pulled
down over his eyes, laid his stick on the table and
asked in his kind way: "How did you find your mother,
Franklin?" "The old lady's first-rate, sir, thank >ou."
And then they had nothing lo say to each other. It was

282 CHANCE

a strange and disturbing feeling for Franklin. He, just
back from leave, the ship just come t her loading berth,
the captain just come on board, and apparently nothing
to say! The several questions he had been anxious to
ask as to various things which had to be done had slipped
out of his mind. He, too, felt as though he had nothing
to say.

The captain, picking up his stick off the table, marched
into his stateroom and shut the door after him. Franklin
remained still for a moment and then started slowly to go
on deck. But before he had time to reach the other end
of the saloon he heard himself called by name. He turned
round. The captain was staring from the doorway of
his stateroom. Franklin said, "Yes, sir," But the
captain, silent, leaned a little forward, grasping the door
handle. So he, Franklin, walked aft keeping his eyes
on him. When he had come up quite close he said again,
"Yes, sir?" interrogatively. Still silence. The mate
didn't like to be stared at in that manner, a manner quite
new in his captain, with a defiant and self-conscious stare,
like a man who feels ill and dares you to notice it. Frank-
lin gazed at his captain, felt that there was something
wrong, and in his simplicity voiced his feelings by asking
point-blank :

"What's wrong, sir?"

The captain gave a slight start, and the character of
his stare changed to a sort of sinister surprise. Franklin
grew very uncomfortable, but the captain asked negli-
gently:

" What makes you think that there's something wrong? "

"I can't say exactly. You don't look quite yourself,
sir," Franklin owned up.

THE "FERNDALE" 283

"You seem to have a confoundedly piercing eye,"
said the captain in such an aggressive tone that Franklin
was moved to defend himself.

"We have been together now over six years, sir, so I
suppose I know you a bit by this time. I could see there
was something wrong directly you came on board.' 5

"Mr. Franklin," said the captain, "we have been more
than six years together, it is true, but I didn't know you
for a reader of faces. You are not a correct reader though.
It's very far from being wrong. You understand? As
far from being wrong as it can very well be. It ought to
teach you not to make rash surmises. You should leave
that to the shore people. They are great hands at spying
out something wrong. I daresay they know what they
have made of the world. A dam' poor job of it and that's
plain. It's a confoundedly ugly place, Mr. Franklin.
You don't know anything of it? Well no, we sailors
don't. Only now and then one of us runs against some-
thing cruel or underhand enough to make your hair stand
on end. And when you do see a piece of their wickedness
you find that to set it right is not so easy as it looks.
. . . Oh! I called you back to tell you that there
will be a lot of workmen, joiners and all that, sent down on
board first thing to-morrow morning to start making
alterations in the cabin. You will see to it that they don't
loaf. There isn't much time."

Franklin was impressed by this unexpected lecture upon
the wickedness of the solid world surrounded by the salt,
uncorruptible waters on which he and his captain had
dwelt all their lives in happy innocence. What he could
not understand was why it should have been delivered,
and what connection it could have with such a matter as

284 CHANCE

the alterations to be carried out in the cabin. The work
did not seem to him to be called for in such a hurry.
What was the use of altering any tiling? It was a very
good accommodation, spacious, well-distributed, on a
rather old-fashioned plan, and with its decorations some-
what tarnished. But a dab of varnish, a touch of gilding
here and there, was all that was necessary. As to com-
fort, it could not be improved by any alterations. He
resented the notion of change; but he said dutifully that
he would keep his eye on the workmen if the captain
would only let him know what was the nature of the
work he }iad ordered to be done.

"You'll find a note of it on this table. I'll leave it for
you as I go ashore," said Captain Anthony hastily.
Franklin thought there was no more to hear, and made a
movement to leave the saloon. But the captain con-
tinued after a slight pause: "You will be surprised, no
doubt, when you look at it. There'll be a good many
alterations. It's on account of a lady coming with us
I am going to get married, Mr. Franklin!"

CHAPTER TWO

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS

YOU remember, went on Marlow, how I feared that
Mr. Powell's want of experience would stand in
his way of appreciating the unusual. The un-
usual I had in my mind was something of a very subtle
sort: the unusual in marital relations. I may well have
doubted the capacity of a young man too much concerned
with the creditable performance of his professional duties
to observe what in the nature of things is not easily observ-
able in itself, and still less so under the special circum-
stances. In the majority of ships a second officer has not
many points of contact with the captain's wife. He sits
at the same table with her at meals, generally speaking; he
may now and then be addressed more or less kindly on
insignificant matters and have the opportunity to show
her some small attentions on deck. And that is all.
Under such conditions, signs can be seen only by a sharp
and practised eye. I am alluding now to troubles which
are subtle often to the extent of not being understood by
the very hearts they devastate or uplift.

Yes, Mr. Powell, whom the chance of his name had
thrown upon the floating stage of that tragi-comedy, would
have been perfectly useless for my purpose if the unusual
of an obvious kind had not aroused his attention from the
first.

We know how he joined that ship so suddenly offered

285

86 CHANCE

to his anxious desire to make a real start in his profession.
He ha,d come on board breathless with the hurried winding
up of his shore affairs, accompanied by two horrible night-
birds, escorted by a dock policeman on the make, received
by an asthmatic shadow of a ship-keeper, warned not to
make a noise in the darkness of the passage because the
captain and his wife were already on board. That in
itself was already somewhat unusual. Captains and their
wives do not, as a rule, join a moment sooner than is
necessary. They prefer to spend the last moments with
their friends and relations. A ship in one of London's
older docks with their restrictions as to lights and so on is
not the place for a happy evening. Still, as the tide
served at six in the morning, one could understand them
coming on board the evening before.

Just then young Powell felt as if anybody ought to be
glad enough to be quit of the shore. We know he was an
orphan from a very early age, without brothers or sisters
no near relations of any kind, I believe, except that
aunt who had quarrelled with his father. No affection
stood in the way of the quiet satisfaction with which he
thought that now all the worries were over, that there was
nothing before him but duties, that he knew what he
would have to do as soon as the dawn broke and for a long
succession of days. A most soothing certitude. He en-
joyed it in the dark, stretched out in his bunk with his
new blankets pulled over him. Some clock ashore be-
yond the dock-gates struck two. And then he heard
nothing more, because he went off into a light sleep from
which he woke up with a start. He had not taken his
clothes off, it was hardly worth while. He jumped up
and went on deck.

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 287

The morning was clear, colourless, gray overhead;
the dock like a sheet of darkling glass crowded with up-
side-down reflections of warehouses, of hulls and masts of
silent ships. Rare figures moved here and there on the
distant quays. A knot of men stood alongside with
clothes-bags and wooden chests at their feet. Others
were coming down the lane between tall blind walls
surrounding a hand-cart loaded with more bags and boxes.
It was the crew of the Ferndale. They began to come on
board. He scanned their faces as they passed forward
filling the roomy deck with the shuffle of their footsteps
and the murmur of voices, like the awakening to life of a
world about to be launched into space.

Far away down the clear glassy stretch in the middle of
the long dock Mr. Powell watched the tugs coming in
quietly through the open gates. A subdued, firm voice
behind him interrupted this contemplation. It was
Franklin, the thick chief mate, who was addressing him
with a watchful, appraising stare of his prominent black
eyes; "You'd better take a couple of these chaps with
you and look out for her aft. We are going to cast off."

"Yes, sir," Powell said with proper alacrity; but for
a moment they remained looking at each other fixedly.
Something like a faint smile altered the set of the chief
mate's lips just before he moved off forward with his brisk
step.

Mr. Powell, getting on the poop, touched his cap to
Captain Anthony, who was there alone. He tells me
that it was only then that he saw his captain for the first
time. The day before, in the Shipping Office, what with
the bad light and his excitement at this berth obtained as
if by a brusque and unscrupulous miracle, did not count.

288 CHANCE

He had then seemed to him much older and heavier. He
was surprised at the lithe figure, broad of shoulder, narrow
at the hips, the fire of the deep-set eyes, the springiness of
the walk. The captain gave him a steady stare, nodded
slightly, and went on pacing the poop with an air of not
being aware of what was going on, his head rigid, his
movements rapid.

Powell stole several glances at him with a curiosity very
natural under the circumstances. He wore a short gray
jacket and a gray cap. In the light of the dawn, growing
more limpid rather than brighter, Powell noticed the
slightly sunken cheeks under the trimmed beard, the
perpendicular fold on the forehead, something hard and
set about the mouth.

It was too early yet for the work to have begun in the
dock. The water gleamed placidly, no movement any-
where on the long straight lines of the quays, no one about
to be seen except the few dock hands busy alongside the
Ferndale, knowing their work, mostly silent or exchanging
a few words in low tones as if they, too, had been aware of
that lady " who mustn't be disturbed." The Ferndale^wsis
the only ship to leave that tide. The others seemed still
asleep, without a sound, and only here and there a figure,
coming up on the forecastle, leaned on the rail to watch
the proceedings idly. Without trouble and fuss and
almost without a sound was the Fcrndale leaving the land,
as if stealing away. Even the tugs, now with their en-
gines stopped, were approaching her without a ripple, the
burly looking paddle-boat sheering forward, while the
other, a screw, smaller and of slender shape, made for her
quarter so gently that she did not divide the smooth water,
but seemed to glide on its surface as if on a sheet of plate

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 289

glass, a man in her bow, the master at the wheel visible
only from the waist upward above the white screen of the
bridge, both of them so still-eyed as to fascinate young
Powell into curious self-forgetf ulness and immobility. He
was steeped, sunk in the general quietness, remembering
the statement "she's a lady that mustn't be disturbed," and
repeating to himself idly: "No. She won't be disturbed.
She won't be disturbed." Then the first loud words of
that morning breaking that strange hush of departure
with a sharp hail: "Look out for that line there!" made
him start. The line whizzed past his head, one of the
sailors aft caught it, and there was an end to the fascina-
tion, to the quietness of spirit which had stolen on him at
the very moment of departure. From that moment till
two hours afterward, when the ship was brought up in one
of the lower reaches of the Thames off an apparently
uninhabited shore, near some sort of inlet where nothing
but two anchored barges flying a red flag could be seen,
Powell was too busy to think of the lady "that mustn't be
disturbed," or of his captain or of anything else uncon-
nected with his immediate duties. In fact, he had no
occasion to go on the poop, or even look that way much;
but while the ship was about to anchor, casting his eyes in
that direction, he received an absurd impression that his
captain (he was up there, of course) was sitting on both
sides of the aftermost skylight at once. He was too
occupied to reflect on this curious delusion, this phenome-
non of seeing double as though he had had a drop too
much. He only smiled at himself.

As often happens after a gray daybreak, the sun had
risen in a warm and glorious splendour above the smooth
immense gleam of the enlarged estuary. Wisps of mist

280 CHANCE

floated like trails of luminous dust, and in the dazzling
reflections of water and vapour, the shores had the murky
semi-transparent darkness of shadows cast mysteriously
from below. Powell, who had sailed out of London all his
young seaman's life, told me that it was then, in a moment
of entranced vision an hour or so after sunrise, that the
river was revealed to him for all time, like a fair face often
seen before, which is suddenly perceived to be the expres-
sion of an inner and unsuspected beauty, of that some-
thing unique and only its own which rouses a passion of
wonder and fidelity and an unappeasable memory of its
charm. The hull of the Ferndale, swung head to the
eastward, caught the light, her tall spars and rigging
steeped in a bath of red-gold, from the water-line full of
glitter to the trucks slight and gleaming against the deli-
cate expanse of the blue.

"Time we had a mouthful to eat," said a voice at his
side. It was Mr. Franklin, the chief mate, with his head
sunk between his shoulders, and melancholy eyes. "Let
the men have their breakfast, bo'sun," he went on, "and
have the fire out in the galley in half an hour at the latest,
so that we can call these barges of explosives alongside.
Come along, young man. I don't know your name.
Haven't seen the captain to speak to since yesterday
afternoon when he rushed off to pick up a second mate
somewhere. How did he get you?"

Young Powell, a little shy notwithstanding the friendly
disposition of the other, answered him smilingly, aware
somehow that there was something marked in this in-
quisitiveness, natural, after all something anxious. His
name was Powell, and he was put in the way of this berth
by Mr. Powell, the Shipping Master. He blushed.

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 291

"Ah, I see. Well, you have been smart in getting
ready. The ship-keeper, before he went away, told me
you joined at one o'clock. I didn't sleep on board last
night. Not I. There was a time when I never cared to
leave this ship for more than a couple of hours in the even-
ing, even while in London, but now, since "

He checked himself with a roll of his prominent eyes
toward that youngster, that stranger. Meantime, he
was leading the way across the quarter-deck under the
poop into the long passage with the door of the saloon
at the far end. It was shut. But Mr. Franklin did not
go so far. After passing the pantry he opened suddenly
a door on the left of the passage, to Pow^elFs great surprise.

"Our mess-room," he said, entering a small cabin
painted white, bare, lighted from part of the foremost
skylight, and furnished only with a table and two settees
with movable backs. "That surprises you? Well, it
isn't usual. And it wasn't so in this ship either, before.
It's only since "

He checked himself again. "Yes. Here we shall feed,
you and I, facing each other for the next twelve months
or more God knows how much more ! The bo'sun
keeps the deck at meal times in fine weather. 5 *

He talked not exactly wheezing, but like a man whose
breath is somewhat short, and the spirit (young Powell
could not help thinking) embittered by some mysterious
grievance.

There was enough of the unusual there to be recognized
even by Powell's inexperience. The officers kept out of
the cabin against the custom of the service, and then this
sort of accent in the mate's talk. Franklin did not seem
to* expect conversational ease from the new second mate*

292 CHANCE

He made several remarks about the old, deploring the
accident. Awkward. Very awkward this thing to happen
on the very eve of sailing.

"Collar-bone and arm broken," he sighed. "Sad, very
sad. Did you notice if the captain was at all affected?
Eh? Must have been."

Before this congested face, these globular eyes turned
yearningly upon him, young Powell (one must keep in
mind he was but a youngster then), who could not remem-
ber any signs of visible grief, confessed with an embar-
rassed laugh that, owing to the suddenness of this lucky
chance coming to him, he was not in a condition to notice
the state of other people.

"I was so pleased to get a ship at last," he murmured,
farther disconcerted by the sort of pent-up gravity in
Mr. Franklin's aspect.

"One man's food another man's poison," the mate
remarked. "That holds true beyond mere victuals. I
suppose it didn't occur to you that it was a damn poor
way for a good man to be knocked out."

Mr. Powell admitted openly that he had not thought
of that. He was ready to admit thai it was very repre-
hensible of him. But Franklin had no intention apparently
to moralize. He did not fall silent either. His further
remarks'were to the effect that there had been a time when
Captain Anthony would have showed more than enough
concern for the least thing happening to one of his officers.
Yes, there had been a time !

"And mind," he went on, laying ("own suddenly a half-
consumed piece of bread and butter and raising his voice,
"poor Mathews was the second man the longest on board.
I was the first. He joined a month later about the

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 293

same time as the steward by a few days. The bo'sun
and the carpenter came the voyage after. Steady men.
Still here. No good man need ever have thought of
leaving the Ferndale unless he were a fool. Some good
men are fools. Don't know when they are well off. I
mean the best of good men; men that you would do any-
thing for. They go on for years, than all of a sudden "

Our young friend listened to the mate with a queer
sense of discomfort growing on him. For it was as though
Mr. Franklin were thinking aloud, and putting him into
the delicate position of an unwilling eavesdropper. But
there was in the mess-room another listener. It was the
steward who had come in carrying a tin coffee-pot with a
long handle, and stood quietly by: a man with a middle-
aged, sallow face, long features, heavy eyelids, a soldierly
gray moustache. His body encased in a short black jacket
with narrow sleeves, his long legs in very tight trousers,
made up an agile, youthful, slender figure. He moved
forward suddenly, and interrupted the mate's monologue.

"More coffee, Mr. Franklin? Nice fresh lot. Piping
hot. I am going to give breakfast to the saloon directly,
and the cook is raking his fire out. Now's your chance.

The mate, who, on account of his peculiar build, could
not turn his head freely, twisted his thick trunk slightly,
and ran his black eyes in the corners toward the steward.

"And is the precious pair of them out?" he growled.

The steward, pouring out the coffee into the mate's cup,
muttered moodily but distinctly: "The lady wasn't when
I was laying the table."

Powell's ears were fine enough to detect something
hostile in this reference to the captain's wife. For of
what other person could they be speaking? The steward

CHANCE

added with a gloomy sort of fairness: "But she will be
before I bring the dishes in. She never gives that sort
of trouble. That she doesn't."

"No. Not in that way." Mr. Franklin agreed, and
then both he and the steward, after glancing at Powell
the stranger to the ship said nothing more.

But this had been enough to rouse his curiosity.
Curiosity is natural to man. Of course it was not a
malevolent curiosity which, if not exactly natural, is to
be met fairly frequently in men and perhaps more fre-
quently in women especially if a woman be in question;
and that Woman under a cloud, in a manner of speaking.
For under a cloud Flora de Barral was fated to be even
at sea. Yes. Even that sort of darkness which attends
a woman for whom there is no clear place in the world
hung over her. Yes. Even at sea!

And this is the pathos of being a woman. A man can
struggle to get a place for himself or perish. But a
woman's part is passive, say what you like, and shuffle the
facts of the world as you may, hinting at lack of energy, of
wisdom, of courage. As a matter of fact, almost all
women have all that of their own kind. But they are
not made for attack. Wait they must. I am speaking
here of women who are really women. And it's no use
talking of opportunities, either. I know that some of
them do talk of it. But not the genuine women. Those
know better. Nothing can beat a true woman for a clear
vision of reality; I would say a cynical vision if I were not
afraid of wounding your chivalrous feelings for which,
by the by, women are not so grateful as you may think, to
fellows of your kind. . . .

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 295

"Upon my word, Marlow," I cried, "what are you
flying out at me for like this? I wouldn't use an ill-
sounding word about women, but what right have you
to imagine that I am looking for gratitude?"

Marlow raised a soothing hand.

"There! There I take back the ill -sounding word,
with the remark, though, that cynicism seems to me a
word invented by hypocrites. But let that pass. As to
women, they know that the clamour for opportunities
for them to become something which they cannot be is
as reasonable as if mankind at large started asking for
opportunities of winning immortality in this world, in
which death is the very condition of life. You must under-
stand that I am not talking here of material existence.
That naturally is implied; but you won't maintain that
a woman who, say, enlisted, for instance (there have been
cases), has conquered her place in the world. She has
only got her living in it which is quite meritorious, but
not quite Ihe same thing.

"All those reflections which arise from my picking up the
thread of Flora dc Barral's existence did not, I am certain,
present themselves to Mr. Powell not the Mr. Powell
we know taking solitary week-end cruises in the estuary of
the Thames (with mysterious dashes into lonely creeks),
but to the young Mr. Powell, the chance second officer of
the ship Ferndale, commanded (and for the most part
owned) by Roderick Anthony, the son of the poet you
know. A Mr. Powell, much slenderer than our robust
friend is now, with the bloom of innocence not quite rubbed
off his smooth cheeks, and apt not only to be interested
but also to be surprised by the experience life was holding
in store for him. This would account for

296 CHANCE

so much of it with considerable vividness. For instance,
the impressions attending his first breakfast on board the
Ferndale, both visual and mental, were as fresh to him as
if received yesterday.

The surprise, it is easy to understand, would arise from
the inability to interpret aright the signs which experience
(a thing mysterious in itself) makes to our understanding
and emotions. For it is never more than that. Our ex-
perience never gets into our blood and bones. It always
remains outside of us. That's why we look with wonder
at the past. And this persists even when from practice
and through growing callousness of fibre we come to the
point when nothing that we meet in that rapid blinking
stumble across a flick of sunshine which our life is
nothing, I say, which we run against surprises us any more.
Not at the time, I mean. If, later on, we recover the
faculty with some such exclamation: 'Well! Well! I'll
be hanged if I ever, . . .' it is probably because this
very thing that there should be a past to look back upon,
other people's, is very astounding in itself when one has
the time a fleeting and immense instant to think
of it . . . "

I was on the point of interrupting Marlow when he
stopped of himself, his eyes fixed on vacancy, or perhaps
(I wouldn't be too hard on him) on a vision. He has the
habit, or, say, the fault, of defective mantelpiece clocks,
of suddenly stopping in the very fulness of the tick. If
you have ever lived with a clock afflicted with that per-
versity, you know how vexing it is such a stoppage. I
was vexed with Marlow. He was smiling faintly while
I waited. He even laughed a little. And then I said
acidly:

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 297

"*Am I to understand that you have ferreted out some-
thing comic in the history of Flora de Barral? "

"Comic!" he exclaimed. "No! What makes you
say? . . . Oh, I laughed did I? But don't you
know that people laugh at absurdities that are very far
from being comic? Didn't you read the latest books
about laughter written by philosophers, psychologists?
There is a lot of them ..."

"I daresay there has been a lot of nonsense written
about laughter and tears, too, for that matter," I said
impatiently.

"They say," pursued the unabashed Marlow, "that we
laugh from a sense of superiority. Therefore, observe,
simplicity, honesty, warmth of feeling, delicacy of heart
and of conduct, self-confidence, magnanimity, are laughed
at, because the presence of these traits in a man's charac-
ter often puts him into difficult, cruel or absurd situations,
and makes us, the majority who are fairly free as a rule
from these peculiarities, feel pleasantly superior."

"Speak for yourself," I said. "But have you discov-
ered all these fine things in the story; or has Mr. Powell
discovered them to you in his artless talk? Have you two
been having good, healthy laughs together? Come! Are
your sides aching yet, Marlow?"

Marlow took no offence at my banter. He was quite
serious.

"I should not like to say off-hand how much of that
there was," he pursued with amusing caution. "But
there was a situation, tense enough for the signs of it to
give many surprises to Mr. Powell neither of them
shocking in itself, but with a cumulative effect which
made the whole unforgettable in the detail of its progress.

298 CHANCE

And the first surprise came very soon, when the explosives
(to which he owed his sudden chance of engagement)
dynamite in cases and blasting powder in barrels taken
on board, main hatch battened for sea, cook restored to
his functions in the galley, anchor fished and the tug
ahead, rounding the South Foreland, and with the sun
sinking clear and red down the purple vista of the channel,
he went on the poop, on duty, it is true, but with time to
take the first freer breath in the busy day of departure.
The pilot was still on board, who gave him first a silent
glance, and then passed an insignificant remark before
resuming his lounging to and fro between the steering
wheel and the binnacle. Powell took his station modestly
at the break of the poop. He had noticed across the sky-
light a head in a gray cap. But when, after a time, he
crossed over to the other side of the deck he discovered
that it was not the captain's head at all. He became
aware of gray hairs curling over the nape of the neck.
How could he have made that mistake? But on board
ship away from the land one does not expect to come upon
a stranger.

Powell walked past the man. A thin, somewhat sunken
face, with a tightly closed mouth, stared at the distant
French coast, vague like a suggestion of solid darkness,
lying abeam beyond the evening light reflected from the
level waters, themselves growing more sombre than the
sky; a stare, across which Powell had to pass and did pass
with a quick side glance, noting its immovable stillness.
His passage disturbed those eyes no more than if he had
been as immaterial as a ghost. And this failure of his
person in producing an impression affected him strangely.
Who could that old man be?

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS

He was so curious that he even ventured to ask the
pilot in a low voice. The pilot turned out to be a good-
natured specimen of his kind, condescending, sententious.
He had been down to his ineals in the main cabin, and had
something to impart.

"That? Queer fish eh? Mrs. Anthony's father.
I've been introduced to him in the cabin at breakfast
time. Name of Smith. Wonder if he has all his wits
about him. They take him about with them it seems.
Don't look very happy eh?"

Then, changing his tone abruptly, he desired Powell
to get all hands on deck and make sail on the ship. "I
shall be leaving you in half an hour. You'll have plenty
of time to find out all about the old gent," he added with a
thick laugh.

In the secret emotion of giving his first order as a fully
responsible officer young Powell forgot the very existence
of that old man in a moment. The following days, in the
interest of getting in touch with the ship, with the men in
her, with his duties, in the rather anxious period of settling
down, his curiosity slumbered ; for of course the pilot's few
words had not extinguished it.

This settling down was made easy for him by the
friendly character of his immediate superior the chief.
Powell could not defend himself from some sympathy for
that thick, bald man, comically shaped, with his crimson
complexion and something pathetic in the rolling of his
very movable black eyes in an apparently immovable
head, who was so tactfully ready to take his competency
for granted.

There can be nothing more reassuring to a young man

300 CHANCE

tackling his life's work for the first time. Mr. Powell,
his mind at ease about himself, had time to observe the
people around with friendly interest. Very early in the
beginning of the passage he had discovered with some
amusement that the marriage of Captain Anthony was
resented by those to whom Powell (conscious of being
looked upon as something of an outsider) referred in his
mind as "the old lot."

They had the funny, regretful glances, intonations, nods
of men who had seen other, better times. What difference
it could have made to the bo'sun and the carpenter, Powell
could not very well understand. Yet these two pulled
long faces and even gave hostile glances to the poop. The
cook and the steward might have been more directly
concerned. But the steward used to remark on occasion,
"Oh, she gives no extra trouble," with scrupulous fairness
of the most gloomy kind . He was rather a silent man, with
a great sense of his personal worth which made his speeches
guarded. The cook, a neat man with fair side whiskers,
who had been only three years in the ship, seemed the
least affected. He was even known to have inquired once
or twice as to the success of some of his dishes with the
captain's wife. This was considered a. a .*t of disloyal
falling away from the ruling feeling.

The mate's annoyance was yet the easiest to under-
stand. As he let it out to Powell before the first week of
the passage was over: "You can't expect me to be pleased
at being chucked out of the saloon as if I weren't good
enough to sit down to meat with that woman." But he
hastened to add : * 'Don't you think I'm blaming the cap-
tain. He isn't a man to be found fault with. You, Mr.
Powell, are too young yet to understand such matters/'

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 301

Some considerable time afterward, at the end of a
conversation of that aggrieved sort, he enlarged a little
more by repeating: "Yes! You are too young to under-
stand these things. I don't say you haven't plenty of
sense. You are doing very well here. Jolly sight better
than I expected, though I liked your looks from the
first.'

It was in the trade-winds, at night, under a velvety,
bespangled sky; a great multitude of stars watching the
shadows of the sea gleaming mysteriously in the wake of
the ship; while the leisurely swishing of the water to lee-
ward was like a drowsy comment on her progress. Mr.
Powell expressed his satisfaction by a half -bashful laugh.
The mate mused on: "And, of course, you haven't known
the ship as she used to be. She was more than a home
to a man. She was not like any other ship: and Captain
Anthony was not like any other master to sail with.
Neither is she now. But before one never had a care in
the world as to her and as to him, too. No, indeed,
there was never anything to worry about."

Young Powell couldn't see what there was to worry
about even then. The serenity of the peaceful night
seemed as vast as all space, and as enduring as eternity
itself. It's true the sea is an uncertain element, but no
sailor remembers this in the presence of its bewitching
power any more than a lover ever thinks of the proverbial
inconstancy of women. And Mr. Powell, being young,
thought naively that the captain being married, there
could be no occasion for anxiety as to his condition. I
suppose that to him life, perhaps not so much his own as
that of others, was something still in the nature of a fairy
tale with a "they Kved happy ever after" termination.

802 CHANCE

We are creatures of our light literature much more than is
generally suspected in a world which prides itself on being
scientific and practical, and in possession of incontroverti-
ble theorieSo Powell felt in that way the more because the
captain of a ship at sea is a remote, inaccessible creature,
something like a prince of a fairy tale, alone of his kind,
depending on nobody, not to be called to account except
by powers practically invisible, and so distant that they
might well be looked upon as supernatural for all that
the rest of the crew knows of them, as a rule.

So he did not understand the aggrieved attitude of the
mate or rather he understood it obscurely as a result of
simple causes which did not seem to him adequate. He
would have dismissed all this out of his mind with a con-
temptuous, "What the devil do I care?" if the captain's
wife herself had not been so young. To see her the first
time had been something of a shock to him. He had some
preconceived ideas as to captains' wives which, while he
did not believe the testimony of his eyes, made him open
them very wide. He had stared till the captain's wife
noticed it plainly and turned her face away. Captain's
wife! That girl covered with rugs in a long chair.
Captain's . . . ! He gasped mentally. It had never
occurred to him that a captain's wife could be anything
but a woman to be described as stout or thin, as jolly or
crabbed, but always mature, and even, in comparison with
his own years, frankly old. But this! It was a sort of
moral upset as though he had discovered a case of abduc-
tion or something as surprising as that. You understand
that nothing is more disturbing than the upsetting of a
preconceived idea. Each of us arranges the world accord-
ing to his own notion of the fitness of things. To behold $

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 303

girl where your average mediocre imagination had placed a
comparatively old woman may easily become one of the
strongest shocks . . . "

Marlow paused, smiling to himself.

"Powell remained impressed after all these years by
the very recollection," he continued in a voice, amused
perhaps, but not mocking. "He said to me only the other
day with something like the first awe of that discovery
lingering in his tone he said to me: * Why she seemed
so young, so girlish, that I looked round for some woman
which would be the captain's wife, though of course I
knew there was no other woman on board that voyage/
The voyage before, it seems, there had been the steward's
wife to act as maid to Mrs. Anthony; but she was not
taken that time for some reason he didn't know. Mrs.
Anthony . . . ! If it hadn't been the captain's wife
he would have referred to her mentally as a kid, he said. I
suppose there must be a sort of divinity hedging in a
captain's wife (however incredible) which prevented him
applying to her that contemptuous definition in the secret
of his thoughts.

" I asked him when this had happened; and he told me
that it was three days after parting from the tug, just
outside the channel to be precise. A head wind had
set in with unpleasant damp weather. He had come up to
leeward of the poop, still feeling very much of a stranger,
and an untried officer, at six in the evening to take his
watch. To see her was quite as unexpected as seeing a
vision. When she turned away her head he recollected
himself and dropped his eyes. What he could see then
was only, close to the long chair on which she reclined, a
pair of long, thin legs ending in black cloth boots tucked

304 CHANCE

in close to the skylight seat. Whence he concluded that
the 'old gentleman/ who wore a gray cap like the captain 's
was sitting by her his daughter. In his first astonish-
ment he had stopped dead short, with the consequence
that now he felt very much abashed at having betrayed
his surprise. But he couldn't very well turn tail and bolt
off the poop. He had come there on duty. So, still with
downcast eyes, he made his way past them. Only when
he got as far as the wheel -grating did he look up. She was
hidden from him by the back of her deck-chair; but he
had the view of the owner of the thin, aged legs seated on
the skylight, his clean-shaved cheek, his thin compressed
mouth with a hollow in each corner, the sparse gray locks
escaping from under the tweed cap, and curling slightly
on the collar of the coat. He leaned forward a little over
Mrs. Anthony, but they were not talking. Captain
Anthony, walking with a springy hurried gait on the other
side of the poop from end to end gazed straight before him.
Young Powell might have thought that his captain was not
aware of his presence either. However, he knew better,
and for that reason spent a most uncomfortable hour
motionless by the compass before his captain stopped in
his swift pacing and with an almost visible effort made
some remark to him about the weather in a low voice.
Before Powell, who was startled, could find a word of
answer, the captain swung off again on his endless tramp
with a fixed gaze. And till the supper bell rang silence
dwelt over that poop like an evil spell. The captain
walked up and down looking straight before him, the
helmsman steered, looking upward at the sails, the old
gent on the skylight looked down on his daughter and
Mr. Powell confessed to me that he didn't know where to

YOUNG POWELL SEES AND HEARS 305

look, feeling as though he had blundered in where he had
no business which was absurd. At last he fastened his
eyes on the compass card, took refuge, in spirit, inside the
binnacle. He felt chilled more than he should have been
by the chilly dusk falling on the muddy green sea of the
soundings from a smoothly clouded sky. A fitful wind
swept the cheerless waste, and the ship, hauled up so close
as to check her way, seemed to progress by languid fits
and starts against the short seas which swept along her
sides with a snarling sound.

Young Powell thought that this was the dreariest even-
ing aspect of the sea he had ever seen. He was glad when
the other occupants of the poop left it at the sound of the
bell. The captain first, with a sudden swerve in his walk
toward the companion, and not even looking once toward
his wife and his wife's father. Those two got up and
moved toward the companion, the old gent very erect, his
thin locks stirring gently about the nape of his neck, and
carrying the rugs over his arm. The girl who was Mrs.
Anthony went down first. The murky twilight had
settled in deep shadow on her face. She looked at Mr.
Powell in passing. He thought that she was very pale.
Cold, perhaps. The old gent stopped a moment, thin and
stiff, before the young man, and in a voice which was low
but distinct enough, and without any particular accent
not even of inquiry he said :

"You are the new second officer, I believe. "
Mr. Powell answered in the affirmative, wondering if
this were a friendly overture. He had noticed that Mr.
Smith's eyes had a sort of inward look as though he had
disliked or disdained his surroundings. The captain's
wife had disappeared then down the companion stairs.

306 CHANCE

Mr. Smith said "Ah!" and waited a little longer to put
another question in his incurious voice.

"And did you know the man who was here before you?"

"No," said young Powell, "I didn't know anybody
belonging to this ship before I joined.'

"He was much older than you. Twice your age. Per-
haps more. His hair was iron gray. Yes. Certainly
more.".;

The low, repressed voice paused, but the old man did
not move away. He added: "Isn't it unusual?"

Mr. Powell was surprised not only by being engaged
in conversation, but also by its character. It might
have been the suggestion of the word uttered by this old
man, but it was distinctly at that moment that he became
aware of something unusual not only in this encounter
but generally around him, about everybody, in the
atmosphere. The very sea, with short flashes of foam
bursting out here and there in the gloomy distances, the
unchangeable, safe sea sheltering a man from all passions,
except its own anger, seemed queer to the quick glance
he threw to windward where the already effaced horizon
traced no reassuring limit to the eye. In the expiring,
diffused twilight, and before the clouded night dropped
its mysterious veil, it was the immensity of space made
visible almost palpable. Young Powell felt it. He
felt it in the sudden sense of his isolation; the trustworthy,
powerful ship of his first acquaintance reduced to a speck,
to something almost undistinguishable, the mere support
for the soles of his two feet before that unexpected old
man becoming so suddenly articulate in a darkening uni-
verse.

It took him a moment or so to seize the drift of the

YOUNG POWELL SEES ANDHEARS 307

question. He repeated slowly: "Unusual. . . . Oh,
you mean for an elderly man to be the second of a ship. I
don't know. There are a good many of us who don't
get on. He didn't get on, I suppose."

The other, his head bowed a little, had the air of listen-
ing with acute attention.

"And now he has been taken to the hospital," he said.

"I believe so. Yes. I remember Captain Anthony
saying so in the Shipping Office."

"Possibly about to die," went on the old man, in his
careful deliberate tone. "And perhaps glad enough to die."

Mr. Powell was young enough to be startled at the
suggestion, which sounded confidential and blood-curdling
in the dusk. He said sharply that it was not very likely,
as if defending the absent victim of the accident from
an unkind aspersion. He felt, in fact, indignant. The
other emitted a short stifled laugh of a conciliatory nature.
The second bell rang under the poop. He made a move-
ment at the sound, but lingered.

"What I said was not meant seriously," he murmured,
with that strange air of fearing to be overheard. "Not
in this case. I know the man."

The occasion, or rather the want of occasion, for this
conversation, and also its character, had sharpened the
perceptions of the unsophisticated second officer of the
Ferndale. He was alive to the slightest shade of tone,
and felt as if this "I know the man" should have been
followed by a "he was no friend of mine." But after
the shortest possible break the old gentleman continued
to murmur distinctly and evenly:

"Whereas you have never seen him. Nevertheless,
when you have gone through as many years as I have,

308 CHANCE

you will understand how an event putting an end to one's
existence may not be altogether unwelcome. Of course
there are stupid accidents. And even then one needn't
be very angry. What is it to be deprived of life? It's
soon done. But what would you think of the feelings
of a man who should have had his life stolen from him?
Cheated out of it, I say!"

He ceased abruptly, and remained still long enough
for the astonished Powell to stammer out an indistinct:
" What do you mean? I don't understand" then, with
alow "Good-night" glided a few steps, and sank through
the shadow of the companion into the lamp-light below,
which did not reach higher than the turn of the staircase.

The strange words, the cautious tone, the whole person
left a strong uneasiness in the mind of Mr. Powell. He
started walking the poop in great mental confusion. He
felt all adrift. This was funny talk and no mistake.
And this cautious low tone as though he were watched
by some one was more than funny. The young second
officer hesitated to break the established rule of every
ship's discipline; but at last could not resist the tempta-
tion of getting hold of some other human being, and spoke
to the man at the wheel.

"Did you hear what this gentleman was saying to me?' 5

"No, sir," answered the sailor quietly. Then, encour-
aged by this evidence of laxity in his officer, made bold to
add, "A queer fish, sir." This was tentative, and Mr.
Powell, busy with his own view, not saying anything, he
ventured farther. "They are more like passengers. One
sees some queer passengers."

"Who are like passengers? " asked Powell gruffly.

"Why, these two, sir."

CHAPTER THREE

DEVOTED SERVANTS AND THE LIGHT OF A FLARE

YOUNG Powell thought to himself: "The men,
too, are noticing it." Indeed, the captain's
behaviour to his wife and to his wife's father
was noticeable enough. It was as if they had been
a pair of not very congenial passengers. But perhaps
it was not always like that. The captain might have
been put out by something.

When the aggrieved Franklin came on deck Mr.
Powell made a remark to that effect. For his curi-
osity was aroused.

The mate grumbled "Seems to you? . . . Put
out? . . . eh?" He buttoned his thick jacket up
to the throat, and only then added a gloomy, "Aye,
likely enough," which discouraged further conversa-
tion. But no encouragement would have induced the
newly joined second mate to enter the way of confi-
dences. His was an instinctive prudence. Powell did
not know why it was he had resolved to keep his own
counsel ns to his colloquy with Mr. Smith. But his
curiosity did not slumber. Some time afterward, again
at the relief of watches, in the course of a little talk,
he mentioned Mrs. Anthony's father quite casually, and
tried to find out from the mate who he was.

"It would take a clever man to find that out, as things
are on board now," Mr. Franklin said, unexpectedly ",om-

310 CHANCE

mimicative. "The first I saw of him was when
brought him alongside in a four-wheeler one morning about
half -past eleven. The captain had come on board early,
and was down in the cabin that had been fitted out
for him. Did I tell you that if you want the captain
for anything you must stamp on the port side of the
deck? That's so. This ship is not only unlike what
she used to be, but she is like no other ship, anyhow.
Did you ever hear of the captain's room being on the port
side? Both of them stern cabins have been fitted up
afresh like a blessed palace. A gang of people from
some tip-top West-end house were fussing here on
board with hangings and furniture for a fortnight, as
if the Queen were coming with us. Of course the star-
board cabin is the bedroom one, but the poor captain
hangs out to port on a couch, so that in case we want
him on deck at night, Mrs. Anthony should not be
startled. Nervous! Phoo! A woman who marries a
sailor and makes up her mind to come to sea should
have no blamed jumpiness about her, I say. But never
mind. Directly the old cab pointed round the corner
of the warehouse I called out to the captain that his
lady was coming aboard. He answered me, but as I
didn't see him coming, I went down the gangway my-
self to help her alight. She jumps out excitedly without
touching my arm, or as much as saying 'thank you 5
or 'good morning* or anything, turns back to the cab,
and then that old joker comes out slowly. I hadn't
noticed him inside. I hadn't expected to see anybody.
It gave me a start. She says: 'My father Mr. Frank-
lin/ He was staring at me like an owl. 'How do
you do, sir?' says I. Both of them looked funny.

DEVOTED SERVANTS 311

It was as if something had happened to them on the
way. Neither of them moved, and I stood by waiting.
The captain showed himself on the poop; and I saw him
at the side looking over, and then he disappeared; on
the way to meet them on shore, I expected. But he
just went down below again. So, not seeing him, I said:
'Let me help you on board, sir.' *On board! 5 says
he in a silly fashion. *On board!' 'It's not a very
good ladder, but it's quite firm,' says I, as he seemed
to be afraid of it. And he didn't look a broken-down
old man, either. You can see yourself what he is.
Straight as a poker, and life enough in him yet. But he
made no move, and I began to feel foolish. Then she
conies forward. 'Oh! Thank you, Mr. Franklin. I'll
help my father up.' Flabbergasted me to be choked
off like this. Pushed in between him and me without
as much as a look my way. So of course I dropped it.
What do you think? I fell back. I would have gone
up on board at once and left them on the quay to come
up or stay there till next week, only they were blocking
the way. I couldn't very well shove them on one side.
Devil only knows what was up between them. There
she was, pale as death, talking to him very fast. He
got as red as a turkey-cock dash me if he didn't.
A bad-tempered old bloke, I can tell you. And a bad
lot, too. Never mind. I couldn't hear what she was
saying to him, but she put force enough into it to shake her.
It seemed it seemed, mind ! that he didn't want to go
on board. Of course it couldn't have been that. I know
better. Well, she took him by the arm above the elbow,
as if to lead him, or push him rather. I was standing
not quite ten feet off. Why should I have gone away?

312 CHANCE

I was anxious to get back on board as soon as they would
let me. I didn't want to overhear her blamed whis-
pering either. But I couldn't stay there forever, so I
made a move to get past them if I could. And that's
how I heard a few words. It was the old chap some-
thing nasty about being * under the heel' of somebody
or other. Then he says, 'I don't want this sacrifice/
What it meant I can't tell. It was a quarrel of that
I am certain. She looks over her shoulder, and sees
me pretty close to them. I don't know what she found
to say into his ear, but lie gave way suddenly. He
looked round at me, too, and they went up together
so quickly then that when I got on the quarter-deck I
was only in time to see the inner door of the passage
close after them. Queer eh? But if it were only
queerness one wouldn't mind. Some luggage in new
trunks came on board in the afternoon. We undocked
at midnight. And may I be hanged if I know who or
what he was or is. I haven't been able to find out. No,
I don't know. He may have been anything. All I
know is that once, years ago when I went to see the
Derby with a friend, I saw a pea-and-thimble chap who
looked just like that old mystery father out of a cab."
All this the goggle-eyed mate had said in a resentful
and melancholy voice, with pauses, to the gentle murmur
of the sea. It was for him a bitter sort of pleasure to
have a fresh pair of ears, a newcomer, to whom he could
repeat all these matters of grief and suspicion talked
over endlessly by the band of Captain Anthony's faith-
ful subordinates. It was evidently so refreshing to his
worried spirit that it made him forget the advisability
of a little caution with a complete stranger. But really

DEVOTED SERVANTS 313

with Mr. Powell there was no danger. Amused, at
first, at these plaints, he provoked them for fun. After-
ward, turning them over in his mind, he became im-
pressed; and as the impression grew stronger with the
days his resolution to keep il to himself grew stronger, too.

What made it all the easier to keep I mean the
resolution was that Powell's sentiment of amused
surprise at what struck him at first as mere absurdity
was not unmingled with indignation. And his years were
too few, his position too novel, his reliance on his own
opinion not yet firm enough to allow him to express it
with any effect. And then what would have been
the use, anyhow and where was the necessity?

But this thing, familiar and mysterious at the same
time, occupied his imagination. The solitude of the
sea intensifies the thoughts and the facts of one's ex-
perience which seems to lie at the very centre of the world,
as the ship which carries one always remains the cen-
tre figure of the round horizon. He viewed the apo-
pletic, goggle-eyed mate and the saturnine, heavy-eyed
steward as the victims of a peculiar and secret form of
lunacy which poisoned their lives. But he did not give
them his sympathy on that account. No. That strange
affliction awakened in him a sort of suspicious wonder.

Once and it was at night again; for the officers of
the Ferndale keeping watch and watch as was customary
in those days, had but few occasions for intercourse
once, I say, the thick Mr. Franklin, a quaintly bulky figure
under the stars, the usual witnesses of his outpourings,
asked him with an abruptness which was not callous,
but in his simple way:

314 CHANCE

"I believe you have no parents living?"

Mr. Powell said that he had lost his father and mother
at a very early age.

"My mother is still alive," declared Mr. Franklin in a
tone which suggested that he was gratified by the fact.
"The old lady is lasting well. Of course she has got to
be made comfortable. A woman must be looked after,
and if it comes to that I say give me a mother. I daresay
if she had not lasted it out so well I might have gone and
got married. I don't know though. We sailors haven't
got much time to look about us to any purpose. Any-
how, as the old lady was there I haven't, I may say,
looked at a girl in my life. Not that I wasn't partial
to female society in my time," he added with a pathetic
intonation, while the whites of his goggle eyes gleamed
amorously under the clear, night sky. "Very partial,
I may say."

Mr. Powell was amused; and as these communica-
tions took place only when the mate was relieved off
duty he had no serious objection to them. The mate's
presence made the first half-hour and sometimes even
more of his watch on deck pass away. If his senior did
not mind losing some of his rest it was not Mr. Powell's
affair. Franklin was a decent fellow. His intention was
not to boast of his filial piety.

"Of course I mean respectable female society," he
explained. "The other sort is neither here nor there.
I blame no man's conduct, but a well-brought-up
young fellow like you knows that there's precious little
fun to be got out of it." He fetched a deep sigh. "I
wish Captain Anthony's mother had been a lasting
sort like my lady. He would have had to look after her

DEVOTED SERVANTS 315

and he would have done it well. Captain Anthony is a
proper man. And it would have saved him from the
most foolish "

He did not finish the phrase which certainly was
turning bitter in his mouth. Mr. Powell thought to
himself: "There he goes again." He laughed a little.

"I don't understand why you are so hard on the cap-
tain, Mr. Franklin. I thought you were a great friend
of his."

Mr. Franklin exclaimed at this. He was not hard on
the captain. Nothing was further from his thoughts.
Friend! Of course he was a good friend and a faith-
ful servant. He begged Powell to understand that if
Captain Anthony chose to strike a bargain with Old
Nick to-morrow, and Old Nick were good to the cap-
tain, he (Franklin) would find it in his heart to love
Old Nick for the captain's sake. That was so. On
the other hand, if a saint, an angel with white wings
came along and "

He broke off short again as if his own vehemence had
frightened him. Then in his strained, pathetic voice
(which he had never raised) he observed that it was no
use talking. Anybody could see that the man was
changed.

"As to that/ 5 said Powell, "it is impossible for me to
judge."

"Good Lord!" whispered the mate. "An educated,
clever young fellow like you with a pair of eyes on him
and some sense too! Is that how a happy man looks?
Eh? Young you may be, but you aren't a kid; and I
dare you to say 'Yes!' 3!1

Mr. Powell did not take up the challenge. He did not

S16 CHANCE

know what to think of the mate's view. Still, it seemed
as if it had opened his understanding in a measure. He
conceded that the captain did not look very well.

"Not very well," repeated the mate mournfully. "Do
you think a man with a face like that can hope to live his
life out? You haven't knocked about long in this world
yet, but you are a sailor, you have been in three or four
ships, you say. Well, have you ever seen a shipmaster
walking Iiis own deck as if he did not know what he had
underfoot? Have you? Dam'me if I don't think that
he forgets where he is. Of course he can be no other than
a prime seaman; but it's lucky, all the same, he has me
on board. I know by this time what he wants done with-
out being told. Do you know that I have had no order
given me since we left port? Do you know that he has
never once opened his lips to me unless I spoke to him
first? I? His chief officer; his shipmate for full six
years, with whom he had no cross word not once in
all that time. Aye. Not a cross look even. True, that
when I do make him speak to me, there is his dear old
self, the quick eye, the kind voice. Could hardly be
other to his old Franklin. But what's the good? Eyes,
voice, everything's miles away. And for all that I
take good care never to address him when the poop isn't
clear. Yes! Only we two and nothing but the sea with
us. You think it would be all right; the only chief mate
he ever had Mr. Franklin here and Mr. Franklin
there when anything went wrong the first word you
would hear about the decks was 'Franklin!' I am
thirteen years older than he is you would think it
would be all right, wouldn't you? Only we two on this
poop on which we saw each other first he a young

DEVOTED SERVANTS 317

master told me that he thought I would suit him
very well we two, and thirty-one days out at sea,
and it's no good! It's like talking to a man stand-
ing on shore. I can't get him back. I can't get at him.
I feel sometimes as if I must shake him by the arm:
* Wake up ! Wake up ! You are wanted, sir ... !' "

Young Powell recognized the expression of a true
sentiment, a thing so rare in this world where there are
so many mutes and so many excellent reasons even at
sea for an articulate man not to give himself away, that
he felt something like respect for this outburst. It
was not loud. The grotesque squat shape, with the
knob of the head as if rammed down between the square
shoulders by a blow from a club, moved vaguely in a
circumstantial space limited by the two harness-casks
lashed to the front rail of the poop, without gestures,
hands in the pockets of the jackets, elbows pressed
closely to its side; and the voice without resonance,
passed from anger to dismay and back again, without a
single louder word in the hurried delivery, interrupted
only by slight gasps for air as if the speaker were being
choked by the suppressed passion of his grief.

Mr. Powell, though moved to a certain extent, was by
no means carried away. And just as he thought that
it was all over, the other, fidgeting in the darkness, was
heard again explosive, bewildered but not very loud in
the silence of the ship and the great empty peace of the sea :

"They have done something to him! What is it?
What can it be? Can't you guess? Don't you know?"

"Good heavens!" Young Powell was astounded on
discovering that this was an appeal addressed to him.
"How on earth can I know?"

S18 CHANCE

"You do talk to that white-faced, black-eyed . . *
I've seen you talking to her more than a dozen times."

Young Powell, his sympathy suddenly chilled, remarked
in a disdainful tone that Mrs. Anthony's eyes were not
black.

"I wish to God she had never set them on the captain,
whatever colour they are," retorted Franklin. "She
and that old chap with the scraped jaws who sits over
her and stares down at her dead-white face with his
yellow eyes confound them ! Perhaps you will tell us
that his eyes are not yellow?"

Powell, not interested in the colour of Mr. Smith's
eyes, made a vague gesture. Yellow or not yellow, it was
all one to him.

The mate murmured to himself. "No. He can't
know. No! No more than a baby. It would take an
older head."

"I don't even understand what you mean," observed
Mr. Powell coldly.

"And even the best head would be puzzled by such
devil-work," the mate continued, muttering. "Well, I
have heard tell of women doing for a man in one way
or another when they got him fairly ashore. But to bring
their deviltry to sea and fasten on such a man! . . .
It's something I can't understand. But I can watch.
Let them look out I say!"

His short figure, unable to stoop, without flexibility,
could not express dejection. He was very tired suddenly;
he dragged his feet going off the poop. Before he left
it with nearly an hour of his watch below sacrificed, he
addressed himself once more to our young man who
stood abreast of the mizzen rigging in an unreceptive

DEVOTED SERVANTS 319

mood expressed by silence and immobility. He did not
regret, he said, having spoken openly on this very seri-
ous matter.

"I don't know about its seriousness, sir," was Mr.
Powell's frank answer. "But if you think you have been
telling me something very new you are mistaken. You
can't keep that matter out of your speeches. It's the
sort of thing I 've been hearing more or less ever since I
came on board/*

Mr. Powell, speaking truthfully, did not mean to speak
offensively. He had instincts of wisdom; he felt that
this was a serious affair, for it had nothing to do with
reason. He did not want to raise an enemy for himself
in the mate. And Mr. Franklin did not take offence.
To Mr. Powell's truthful statement he answered with
equal truth and simplicity that it was very likely, very
likely. With a thing like that (next door to witchcraft
almost) weighing on his mind, the wonder was that he
could think of anything else. The poor man must have
found in the restlessness of his thoughts the illusion of
being engaged in an active contest with some power of
evil; for his last words as he went lingeringly down the
poop ladder expressed the quaint hope that he would get
him, Powell, "on our side yet."

Mr. Powell just imagine a straightforward young-
ster assailed in this fashion on the high seas answered
merely by an embarrassed and uneasy laugh which re-
flected exactly the state of his innocent soul. The
apoplectic mate, already halfway down, went up
again three steps of the poop ladder. Why, yes. A proper
young fellow, the mate expected, wouldn't stand by
and see a man, a good sailor and his own skipper, in

320 CHANCE

trouble without taking his part against a couple of
shore people who Mr. Powell interrupted him im-
patiently, asking what was the trouble?

"What is it you are hinting at?" he cried with an in-
explicable irritation.

"I don't like to think of him all alone down there,
with these two," Franklin whispered impressively.
"Upon my word I don't. God only knows what may
be going on there. . . . Don't laugh. . . . It/was
bad enough last voyage when Mrs. Brown had a cabin
aft; but now it's worse. It frightens me. I can't
sleep sometimes for thinking of him alone there, shut
off from us all."

Mrs. Brown was the steward's wife. You must under-
stand that shortly after his visit to the Fyne cottage
(with all its consequences), Anthony had got an offer
to go to the Western Islands, and bring home the cargo
of some ship which, damaged in a collision or a strand-
ing, took refuge in St. Michael, and was condemned
there. Roderick Anthony had connections which would
put such paying jobs in his way. , So Flora de Barral
had but a five months' voyage, a mere excursion, for
her first trial of sea-life. And Anthony, clearly trying
to be most attentive, had induced this Mrs. Brown, the
wife of his faithful steward, to come along as maid to
his bride. But for some reason or other this arrange-
ment was not continued. And the mate, tormented
by indefinite alarms and forebodings, regretted it.
He regretted that Jane Brown was no longer on board
as a sort of representative of Captain Anthony's faithful
servants, to watch quietly what went on in that part
of the ship this fatal marriage had closed to their vigi-

DEVOTED SERVANTS 31

lance. That had been excellent. For she was a depend*
able woman.

Powell did not detect any particular excellence in
what seemed a spying employment. But in his sim-
plicity he said that he should have thought Mrs. An-
thony would have been glad anyhow to have another
woman on board. He was thinking of the white-faced
girlish personality which it seemed to him ought to
have been cared for. The innocent young man always
looked upon this girl as immature; something of a child yet.

"She glad! Why it was she who had her fired out.
She didn't want anybody around the cabin. Mrs.
Brown is certain of it. She told her husband so. You
ask the steward and hear what he has to say about it.
That's why I don't like it. A capable woman who
knew her place. But, no. Out she must go. For
no fault, mind you. The captain was ashamed to send
her away. But that wife of his aye the precious pair
of them have got hold of him. I can't speak to him for
a minute on the poop without that thimble-rigging
coon coming gliding up. I'll tell you what. I over-
heard once God knows I didn't try to only he
forgot I was on the other side of the skylight with
my sextant I overheard him you know how he
sits hanging over her chair and talking without properly
opening his mouth yes, I caught the word right enough.
He was alluding to the captain as 'the jailer/ The
jail . . . !"

Franklin broke off with a profane execration. A
silence reigned for a long time and the slight, very gentle
rolling of the ship slipping before the N. E. trade- wind
seemed to be soothing device for lulling to sleep the

322 CHANCE

suspicions of men who trust themselves to the sea. A
deep sigh was heard followed by the mate's voice asking
dismally if that was the way one would speak of a man
to whom one wished well? No better proof of some-
thing wrong was needed. Therefore, he hoped, as he
vanished at last, that Mr. Powell would be on their side.
At this time Mr. Powell did not answer this hope with
an embarrassed laugh.

That young officer was more and more surprised at
the nature of the incongruous revelations coming to
him in the surroundings and in the atmosphere of the open
sea. It is difficult for us to understand the extent,
the completeness, the comprehensiveness of his inex-
perience, for us who didn't go to sea out of a small private
school at the age of fourteen years and nine months,
Leaning on his elbow in the rnizzen rigging and so still
that the helmsman over there at the other end of the
poop might have (and he probably did) suspect him of
being criminally asleep on duty, he tried to "get hold
of that thing" by some side which would fit in with his
simple notions of psychology. "What the deuce are
they worrying about?" he asked himself in a dazed and
contemptuous impatience. But all the same "jailer"
was a funny name to give a man, unkind, unfriendly,
nasty. He was sorry that Mr. Smith was guilty in that
matter, because, the truth must be told, he had been to
a certain extent sensible of having been noticed in a
quiet manner by the father of Mrs. Anthony. Youth
appreciates that sort of recognition which is the subtlest
form of flattery age can offer. Mr. Smith seized oppor-
tunities to approach him on deck. His remarks were
sometimes weird and enigmatical. He was doubtless

DEVOTED SERVANTS 323

an eccentric old gent. But from that to calling his
son-in-law (whom he never approached on deck) nasty
names behind his back was a long step.

And Mr. Powell marvelled. . .

While he was telling me all this Marlow changed
his tone I marvelled even more. It was as if mis-
fortune marked its victims on the forehead for the dis-
like of the crowd. I am not thinking here of numbers.
Two men may behave like a crowd, three certainly will
when their emotions are engaged. It was as if the
forehead of Flora de Barral were marked. Was the girl
born to be a victim; to be always disliked and crushed
as if she were too fine for tin's world? Or too luck-
less since that also is often counted as sin.

Yes, I marvelled more since I knew more of the girl
than Mr. Powell if only her true name; and more of
Captain Anthony if only the fact that he was the
son of a delicate erotic poet of a markedly refined and
autocratic temperament. Yes I knew their joint stories,
which Mr. Powell did not know. The chapter in it he
was opening for me, the sea-chapter, with such new
personages as the sentimental and apoplectic chief -mate
and the morose steward, however astounding to him
in its detached condition, was much more so to me as
a member of a series, following the chapter outside the
Eastern Hotel in which I myself had played my part.
In view of her declarations and my sage remarks it
was very unexpected. She had meant well, and I had
certainly meant well, too. Captain Anthony as far
as I could gather from little Fyne had meant well.
4.s far as such lofty words may be applied to the obscure
personages of this story we were all filled with the noblest

324 CHANCE

sentiments and intentions. The sea was there to give
them the shelter of its solitude free from the earth's
petty suggestions. I could well marvel in myself as
to what had happened.

I hope that if he saw it, Mr. Powell forgave me the
smile of which I was guilty at that moment. The light
in the cabin of his little cutter was dim. And the smile
was dim, too. Dim and fleeting. The girl's life had
presented itself to me as a tragi-comical adventure, the
saddest thing on earth, slipping between frank laughter
and unabashed tears. Yes, the saddest facts and the
most common, and, being common, perhaps the most
worthy of our unreserved pity.

The purely human reality is capable of lyrism but not
of abstraction. Nothing will serve for its understanding
but the evidence of rational linking up of characters and
facts. And beginning with Flora de Barral, in the light
of my memories I was certain that she at least must have
been passive; for that is of necessity the part of women,
this waiting on fate which some of them, and not the most
intelligent, cover up by the vain appearances of agi-
tation. Flora de Barral was not exceptionally intelli-
gent, but she was thoroughly feminine. She would be
passive (and that does not mean inanimate) in the cir-
cumstances, where the mere fact of being a woman was
enough to give her an occult and supreme significance.
And she would be enduring, which is the essence of
woman's visible, tangible power. Of that I was certain,
Had she not endured already? Yet it is so true that
the germ of destruction lies in wait for us mortals, even
at the very source of our force, that one may die of too
much endurance as well as of too little of it.

DEVOTED SERVANTS

Such was my train of thought. And I was mindful
also of my first view of her toying or perhaps
communing in earnest with the possibilities of a preci-
pice. But I did not ask Mr. Powell anxiously what
had happened to Mrs. Anthony in the end. I let him
go on in his own way feeling that no matter what strange
facts he would have to disclose, I was certain to know
much more of them than he ever did know or could
possibly guess. . . ."

Mario w paused for quite a long time. He seemed un-
certain as though he had advanced something beyond my
grasp. Purposely I made no sign. "You understand? "
he asked.

"Perfectly," I said. "You are the expert in the psy-
chological wilderness. This is like one of those Red-
skin stories where the noble savages carry off a girl and
the honest backwoodsman with his incomparable knowl-
edge follows the track and reads the signs of her fate
in a footprint here, a broken twig there, a trinket dropped
by the way. I have always liked such stories. Go on."

Marlow smiled indulgently at my jesting. "It is not
exactly a story for boys," he said. "I go on then. The
sign, as you call it, was not very plentiful but very much
to the purpose and when Mr. Powell heard at a certain
moment I felt bound to tell him when he heard that I
had known Mrs. Anthony before her marriage, that,
to a certain extent, I was her confidant . . . For you
can't deny that to a certain extent . . . Well, let us
say that I had a look in. ... A young girl, you
know, is something like a temple. You pass by and
wonder what mysterious rites are going on in there?
what prayers, what visions? The privileged men, the

326 CHANCE

lover, the husband, who are given the key of the sanc-
tuary, do not always know how to use it. For myself,
without claim, without merit, simply by chance, I had
been allowed to look through the half-opened door and
I had seen the saddest possible desecration, the withered
brightness of youth, a spirit neither made cringing nor
yet dulled, but as if bewildered in quivering hopelessness
by gratuitous cruelty; self-confidence destroyed, and
instead, a resigned recklessness, a mournful callousness
(and all this simple, almost naive) before the material
and moral difficulties of the situation. The passive
anguish of the luckless!

I asked myself: wasn't that ill-luck exhausted yet? Ill-
luck which is like the hate of invisible powers interpreted,
made sensible and injurious by the actions of men?

Mr. Powell, as you may well imagine, had opened his
eyes at my statement. But he was full of his recalled ex-
periences on board the Ferndale, and the strangeness of
being mixed up in what went on aboard, simply because
his name was also the name of a Shipping Master, kept
him in a state of wonder which made other coinci-
dences, however unlikely, not so very surprising after all.

This astonishing occurcnce was so present to his mind
that he always felt as though he were there under false
pretences. And this feeling was so uncomfortable that
it nerved him to break through the awe-inspiring aloof-
ness of his captain. He wanted to make a clean breast
of it. I imagine that his youth stood in good stead to
Mr. Powell. Oh, yes. Youth is a power. Even Cap-
tain Anthony had to take some notice of it, as if it re-
freshed him to see something untouched, unsearred*
unhardened by suffering. Or perhaps the very novelty

DEVOTED SERVANTS 327

of that face, on board a ship where he had seen the same
faces for years, attracted his attention.

Whether one day he dropped a word to his new second
officer or only looked at him I don't know; but Mr. Powell
seized the opportunity whatever it was. The captain,
who had started and stopped in his everlasting rapid walk,
smoothed his brow very soon, heard him to the end and
then laughed a little.

"Ah! That's the story. And you felt you must put
me right as to this."

"Yes, sir."

"It doesn't matter how you came on board," said
Anthony. And then showing that perhaps he was not
so utterly absent from his ship as Franklin supposed:
"That's all right. You seem to be getting on very well
with everybody," he said in his curt, hurried tone, as if
talking hurt him, and his eyes already straying over the
sea as usual.

"Yes, sir."

Powell tells me that looking then at the strong face to
which that haggard expression was returning, he had the
impulse, from some confused friendly feeling, to add:
"I am very happy on board here, sir."

The quickly returning glance, its steadiness, abashed
Mr. Powell and made him even step back a little. The
captain looked as though he had forgotten the meaning
of the word.

"You what? Oh, yes . . . You ... of
course . . . Happy. Why not?"

This was merely muttered; and next moment Anthony
was off on his headlong tramp, his eyes turned to the sea
away from his ship.

328 CHANCE

A sailor indeed looks generally into the great dis-
tances, but in Captain Anthony's case there was as
Powell expressed it something particular, something
purposeful like the avoidance of pain or temptation. It
was very marked once one had become aware of it. Be-
fore, one felt only a pronounced strangeness. Not that
the captain Powell was careful to explain didn't
see things as a shipmaster should. The proof of it was
that on that very occasion he desired him suddenly after
a period of silent pacing to have all the staysails sheets
eased off, and he was going on with some other remarks
on the subject of these staysails when Mrs. Anthony,
followed by her father, emerged from the companion.
She established herself in her chair to leeward of the sky-
light as usual. Thereupon the captain cut short what-
ever he was going to say, and in a little while went down,
below.

I asked Mr. Powell whether the captain and his wife
never conversed on deck. He said no or at any rate
they never exchanged more than a couple of words.
There was some constraint between them. For in-
stance, on that very occasion, when Mrs. Anthony came
out, they did look at each other; the captain's eyes
indeed followed her till she sat down; but he did not
speak to her; he did not approach her; and afterward
left the deck without turning his head her way after
this first silent exchange of glances.

I asked Mr. Powell what did he do then, the captain
being out of the way. "I went over and talked to Mrs.
Anthony. I was thinking that it must be very dull for
her. She seemed to be such a stranger to the ship."

"The father was there of course?'*

DEVOTED SERVANTS 329

"Always," said Powell. "He was always there sitting
on the skylight, as if he were keeping watch over her.
And I think," he added, "that he was worrying her.
Not that she showed it in any way. Mrs. Anthony
was always very quiet and always ready to look one
straight in the face."

"You talked together a lot?" I pursued my inquiries.

"She mostly let me talk to her," confessed Mr. Powell.
"I don't know that she was very much interested but
still she let me. She never cut me short."

All the sympathies of Mr. Powell were for Flora An-
thony, nee de Barral. She was the only human being
younger than himself on board that ship, since the
Ferndale carried no boys and was manned by a full crew
of able seamen. Yes, their youth had created a sort of
bond between them. Mr. Powell's open countenance
must have appeared to her distinctly pleasing amongst
the mature, rough, crabbed or even inimical faces she
saw around her. With the warm generosity of his age r
young Powell was on her side, as it were, even before he
knew there were sides to be taken on board that ship,
and what this taking sides was about. There was a girl.
A nice girl. He asked himself no questions. Flora de
Barral was not so much younger in years than himself;
but for some reason, perhaps by contrast with the ac-
cepted idea of a captain 's wife, he could not regard her
otherwise but as an extremely youthful creature. At
the same time, apart from her exalted position, she exer-
cised over him the supremacy a woman's earlier ma-
turity gives her over a young man of her own age. As
a matter of fact we can see that, without ever having
more than a half an hour's consecutive conversation

330 CHANCE

together, and the distances duly preserved, these two
were becoming friends under the eye of the old man,
I suppose.

How he first got in touch with his captain's wife Pow-
ell relates in this way: It was long before his memorable
conversation with the mate and shortly after getting
clear of the channel. It was gloomy weather; dead head
wind, blowing quite half a gale; the Ferndalc, under re-
duced sail, was stretching close-hauled across the track
of the homeward bound ships, just moving through the
water and no more, since there was no object in pressing
her and 'the weather looked threatening. About ten
o'clock at night he was alone on the poop, in charge,
keeping well aft by the weather rail and staring to
windward, when amongst the white, breaking seas,
under the black sky he made out the lights of a ship.
He watched them for some time. She was running dead
before the wind of course. She will pass jolly close he
said to himself; and then suddenly he felt a great mistrust
of that approaching ship. She's heading straight for us
he thought. It was not his business to get out of
the way. On the contrary. And his uneasiness grew
by the recollection of the forty tons of dynamite in the
body of the Ferndale; not the sort of cargo one thinks
of with equanimity in connection with a threatened
collision. He gazed at the two small lights in the dark
immensity filled with the angry noise of the seas. They
fascinated him till their plainness to his sight gave him a
conviction that there was danger there. He knew in
his mind what to do in the emergency, but very properly
he felt that he must call the captain out at once.

He crossed the deck in one stride. By the immemorial

DEVOTED SERVANTS 831

custom and usage of the sea the captain's room is on the
starboard side. You would just as soon expect your
captain to have his nose at the back of his head as to have
his stateroom on the port side of the ship. Powell forgot
all about the direction on that point given him by the
chief. He flew over as I said, stamped with his foot, and
then putting Ids face to the cowl of the big ventilator
shouted down there: "Please come on deck, sir," in a
voice which was not trembling or scared but which we
may call fairly expressive. There could not be a mis-
lake as to the urgence of the call. But instead of the
expected alert "All right!" and the sound of a rush
down there, heheard only a faint exclamation thensilence.

Think of his astonishment! He remained there,
his ear in the cowl of the ventilator, his eyes fastened on
those menacing sidelights dancing on the gusts of wind
which swept the angry darkness of the sea. It was as
though he had waited an hour, but it was something
much less than a minute before he fairly bellowed into
the wide tube, "Captain Anthony." An agitated "What
is this?'* was what he heard down there in Mrs. An-
thony's voice, light rapid footsteps. . . . Why didn't
she try to wake him up! "I w r ant the captain," he
shouted, then gave it up, making a dash at the companion,
where a blue light was kept, resolved to act for himself.

On the way he glanced at the helmsman, whose face,
lighted up by the binnacle lamps, was calm. He said
rapidly to him: "Stand by to spin that helm up at the
first word." The answer, "Aye, aye, sir," was delivered
in a steady voice. Then Mr. Powell, after a shout for
the watch on deck to come aft, ran to the ship's side and
struck the blue light on the rail.

332 CHANCE

A sort of nasty spitting of sparks was all lie got. The
light (perhaps affected by damp) had failed to ignite.
The time of all these various acts must be counted in
seconds. Powell confessed to me that at this failure he
experienced a paralysis of thought, of voice, of limbs.
The unexpectedness of this misfire positively overcame
his faculties. It was the only thing for which his im-
agination was not prepared. It was knocked clean over.
When it got up it was with the suggestion that he must
do something at once or there would be a broadside
smash accompanied by the explosion of dynamite, in
which both ships would be blown up and every soul
on board of them would vanish off the earth in an enor-
mous flame and uproar.

He saw the catastrophe happening and at the same
moment, before he could open his mouth or stir a limb to
ward off the vision, a voice very near his ear, the measured
voice of Captain Anthony, said: "Wouldn't light
eh? Throw it down! Jump for the flare-up."

The spring of activity in Mr. Powell was released with
great force. He jumped. The flare-up was kept inside
the companion with a box of matches ready to hand.
Almost before he knew he had moved he was diving under
the companion slide. He got hold of the can in the dark
and tried to strike a light. But he had to press the flare-
holder to his breast with one arm, his fingers were damp
and stiff, his hands trembled a little. One match broke.
Another went out. In its flame he saw the colourless
face of Mrs. Anthony a little below him, standing on the
cabin stairs. Her eyes, which were very close to his (he
was in a crouching posture on the top step), seemed to
burn darkly in the vanishing light. On deck the cap-

DEVOTED SERVANTS 333

tain's voice was heard sudden and unexpectedly sar-
donic: "You had better look sharp, if you want to be
in time."

"Let me have the box," said Mrs. Anthony in a hurried
and familiar whisper which sounded amused as if they
had been a couple of children up to some lark behind a
wall. He was glad of the offer, which seemed to him very
natural, and without ceremony:

"Here you are. Catch hold."

Their hands touched in the dark and she took the box
while he held the paraffin soaked torch in its iron holder.
He thought of warning her: "Look out for yourself."
But before he had time to finish the sentence the flare
blazed up violently between them and he saw her throw
herself back with an arm across her face. "Hallo," he
exclaimed; only he could not stop a moment to ask if she
was hurt. He bolted out of the companion straight into
his captain, who took the flare from him and held it high
above his head.

The fierce flame fluttered like a silk flag, throwing an
angry swaying glare mingled with moving shadows over
the poop, lighting up the concave surfaces of the sails,
gleaming on the wet paint of the white rails. And young
Powell turned his eyes to windward with a catch in his
breath.

The strange ship, a darker shape in the night, did not
seem to be moving onward but only to grow more dis-
tinct right abeam, staring at the Ferndale with one
green and one red eye which swayed and tossed as if they
belonged to the restless head of some invisible monster
ambushed in the night amongst the waves. A moment,
long like eternity, elapsed, and, suddenly, the monster,

334 CHANCE

which seemed to take to itself the shape of a mountain
shut its green eye without as much as a preparatory wink.

Mr. Powell drew a free breath. "All right now," said
Captain Anthony in a quiet undertone. He gave the
blazing flare to Powell and walked aft to watch the pass-
ing of that menace of destruction coming blindly with its
parti-coloured stare out of a blind night on the wings of a
sweeping wind. Her very form could be distinguished
now black and elongated amongst the hissing patches of
foam bursting along her path.

As is always the case with a ship running before wind
and sea she did not seem to an onlooker to move very
fast, but to be progressing indolently in long, leisurely
bounds and pauses in the midst of the overtaking waves.
It was only when actually passing the stern within easy
hail of the Ferndale that her headlong speed became
apparent to the eye. With the red light shut off and
soaring like an immense shadow on the crest of a wave
she was lost to view in one great, forward swing, melting
into the lightless space.

"Close shave," said Captain Anthony in an indifferent
voice just raised enough to be heard in the wind. "A
blind lot on board that ship. Put out the flare now."

Silently Mr. Powell inverted the holder, smothering the
flame in the can, bringing about by the mere turn of his
wrist the fall of darkness upon the poop. And at the
same time vanished out of his mind's eye the vision of
another flame enormous and fierce shooting violently frcm
a white churned patch of the sea, lighting up the very
clouds and carrying upward in its volcanic rush flying
spars, corpses, the fragments of two destroyed ships. It
vanished and there was an immense relief. He told me he

DEVOTED SERVANTS 335

did not know how scared he had been, not generally but
of that very thing his imagination had conjured, till it was
all over. He measured it (for fear is a great tension) by
the feeling of slack weariness which came over him all at
once.

He walked to the companion and stooping low to put
the flare in its usual place saw in the darkness the mo-
tionless, pale oval of Mrs. Anthony 's face. She whispered
quietly :

"Is anything going to happen? What is it?'*

"It's all over now," he whispered back.

He remained bent low, his head inside the cover staring
at that white ghostly oval. He wondered she had not
rushed out on deck. She had remained quietly there.
This was pluck. Wonderful self-restraint. And it was
not stupidity on her part. She knew there was imminent
danger and probably had some notion of its nature.

"You stayed here waiting for what would come," he
murmured admiringly.

"Wasn't that the best thing to do?" she asked.

He didn't know. Perhaps. He confessed he could
not have done it. Not he. His flesh and blood could
not have stood it. He would have felt he must see what
was coming. Then he remembered that the flare might
have scorched her face, and expressed his concern.

"A bit. Nothing to hurt. Smell the singed hair?"
There was a sort of gayety in her tone. She might have
been frightened but she certainly was not overcome and
suffered from no reaction. This confirmed and augmented
if possible Mr. Powell's good opinion of her as a "jolly
girl," though it seemed to him positively monstrous to
refer in such terms to one's captain's wife, "But sh"

336 CHANCE

doesn't look it," he thought in extenuation and was going
to say something more to her about the lighting of the
flare when another voice was heard in the companion,
saying some indistinct words. Its tone was contempt-
uous, it came from below, from the bottom of the stairs.
It wns a voice in the cabin. And the only other voice
which could be heard in the main cabin at this time
of the evening was the voice of Mrs. Anthony's father.
The indistinct white oval sank from Mr. Powell's sight
so swiftly as to take him by surprise. For a moment he
hung at the opening of the companion, and now that her
slight form was no longer obstructing the narrow and
winding staircase, the voices came up louder but the words
were still indistinct. The old gentleman was excited
about something and Mrs. Anthony was "managing
him," as Powell expressed it. They moved away from
the bottom of the stairs and Powell went away from
the companion. Yet he fancied he had heard the words
"Lost to me" before he withdrew his head. They had
been uttered by Mr. Smith.

Captain Anthony had not moved away from the taff-
rail. He remained in the very position he took up to
watch the other ship go by rolling and swinging all
shadowy in the uproar of the following seas. He stirred
not; and Powell keeping near by did not dare speak to
him, so enigmatical in its contemplation on the night
did his figure appear to his young eyes: indistinct and
in its immobility staring into gloom, the prey of some
incomprehensible grief, longing or regret.

Why is it that the stillness of a human being is often
so impressive, so suggestive of evil as if our proper fate
were a ceaseless agitation? The stillness of Captain

DEVOTED SERVANTS 33?

Anthony became almost intolerable to liis second officer.
Mr. Powell loitering about the skylight wanted his
captain off the deck now. "Why doesn't he go below?"
he asked himself impatiently. He ventured a cough.

Whether the effect of the cough or not, Captain An-
thony spoke. He did not move the least bit. With
his back remaining turned to the whole length of the ship
he asked Mr. Powell with some brusqueness if the chief
mate had neglected to instruct him that the captain
was to be found on the port side.

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Powell approaching his back.
"The mate told me to stamp on the port side when I
wanted you; but I didn't remember at the moment.' 5

"You should remember," the captain uttered with
an effort. Then added mumbling, "I don't want Mrs.
Anthony frightened. Don't you see? . . ,"

"She wasn't this time," Powell said innocently: "She
lighted the flare-up for me, sir."

"This time," Captain Anthony exclaimed and turned
round. "Mrs. Anthony lighted the flare? Mrs. Anthony !
. . . " Powell explained that she was in the com-
panion all the time.

"All the time," repeated the captain. It seemed
queer to Powell that instead of going himself to see, the
captain should ask him:

"Is she there now?"

Powell said that she had gone below after the ship
had passed clear of the Ferndale. Captain Anthony
made a movement toward the companion himself, when
Powell added the information. "Mr. Smith called to
Mrs. Anthony from the saloon, sir. I believe they are
lalking there now."

338 CHANCE

He was surprised to see the captain give up the idea
of going below after all.

He began to walk the poop instead regardless of the
cold, of the damp wind, and of the sprays. And yet he
had nothing on but his sleeping suit and slippers. Powell
placing himself on the break of the poop kept a look-out.
When after some time he turned his head to steal a glance
at his eccentric captain he could not see his active and
shadowy figure swinging to and fro. The second mate
of the Fcrndale walked aft peering about and addressed
the seaman who steered.

"Captain gone below?"

"Yes, sir," said the fellow, who with a quid of tobacco
bulging out his left cheek, kept his eyes on the compass
card. "This minute. He laughed."

"Laughed?" repeated Powell incredulously. "Do you
mean the captain did? You must be mistaken. What
would he want to laugh for?"

"Don't know, sir."

The elderly sailor displayed a profound indifference
toward human emotions. However, after a longish pause
he conceded a few words more to the second officer's
weakness. "Yes. He was walking the deck as usual
when suddenly he laughed a little and made for the com-
panion. Thought of something funny all at once."

Something funny! That, Mr. Powell could not believe.
He did not ask himself why at the time. Funny thoughts
come to men, though, in all sorts of situations; they
come to all sorts of men. Nevertheless Mr. Powell was
shocked to learn that Captain Anthony had laughed
without visible cause on a certain night. The impression
for some reason was disagreeable. And it was then,

DEVOTED SERVANTS 339

while finishing his watch, with the chilly gusts of wind
sweeping at him out of the darkness where the short sea
of the soundings growled spitefully all round the ship,
that it occurred to his unsophisticated mind that per-
haps things are not what they are confidentially ex-
pected to be; that it was possible that Captain Anthony
was not a happy man. ... In so far you will per-
ceive he was to a certain extent prepared for the apo-
plectic and sensitive Franklin's lamentations about his
captain. And though he treated them with a contempt
which was in a great measure sincere, yet he admitted
to me that deep down within him an inexplicable and
uneasy suspicion that all was not well in that cabin, so
unusually cut off from the rest of the ship, came into
being and grew against his will. . . /'

CHAPTER FOUR

ANTHONY AND FLORA

MARLOW emerged out of the shadow of the book-
case to get himself a cigar from a box which stood
on a little table by my side. In the full light of
the room I saw in his eyes that slightly mocking expression
with which he habitually covers up his sympathetic
impulses of mirth and pity before the unreasonable com-
plications the idealism of mankind puts into the simple
but poignant problem of conduct on this earth.

He selected and lit the cigar with affected care, then
turned upon me. I had been looking at him silently.

"I suppose," he said, the mockery of his eyes giving
a pellucid flavour to his tone, "that you think it's high
time I told you something definite. I mean something
about that psychological cabin mystery of discomfort
(for it's obvious that it must be psychological) which
affected so profoundly Mr. Franklin, the chief mate, and
had even disturbed the serene innocence of Mr. Powell,
the second mate of the ship Ferndale, commanded by
Roderick Anthony the son of the poet, you know."

"You are going to confess now that you have failed
to find it out/' I said in pretended indignation.

"It would serve you right if I told you that I have.
But I won't. I haven't failed. I own, though, that for a
time I was puzzled. However, I have now seen our
Powell many times under the most favourable conditions

40

ANTHONY AND FLORA 341

and besides, I came upon a most unexpected source of in-
formation. . . But never mind that. The means
don't concern you except in so far as they belong to the
story. I'll admit that for some time the old-maiden-lady-
like occupation of putting two and two together failed to
procure a coherent theory. I am speaking now as an inves-
tigator a man of deductions. With what w r e know of
Roderick Anthony and Flora de Barral I could not deduct
an ordinary marital quarrel beautifully matured in less
than a year could I. If you ask me what is an ordinary
marital quarrel I will tell you that it is a difference about
nothing; I mean, these nothings which, as Mr. Powell
told us when we first met him, shore people are so prone to
start a row about, and nurse into hatred from an idle sense
of wrong, from perverted ambition, for spectacular reasons,
too. There are on earth no actors too humble and obscure
not to have a gallery; that gallery which envenoms the
play by stealthy jeers, counsels of anger, amused comments,
or words of perfidious compassion. However, the An-
thonys were free from all demoralizing influences. At
sea, you know, there is no gallery. You hear no torment-
ing echoes of your own littleness there, where either a
great elemental voice roars defiantly at the sky or else an
elemental silence seems to be part of the infinite stillness of
the universe.

"Remembering Flora de Barral in the depths of moral
misery, and Roderick Anthony carried away by a gust of
tempestuous tenderness, I asked myself, Is it all forgotten
already? What could they have found to estrange them
from each other with this rapidity and this thoroughness
so far from all temptations, in the peace of the sea and in
an isolation so complete that if it had not been the jealous

342 CHANCE

devotion of the preposterous Franklin stimulating the
attention of Powell, there would have been no record, no
evidence of it at all.

"I must confess at once that it was Flora de Barral whom
I suspected. In this world as at present organized women
are the suspected half of the population. There are good
reasons for that. These reasons are so discoverable with
a little reflection that it is not worth my while to set them
out for you. I will only mention this: that the part
falling to women's share being all 'influence' has an air
of occult and mysterious action, something not altogether
trustworthy like all natural forces which, for us, work in
the dark because of our imperfect comprehension.

"If women were not a force of nature, blind in strength
^nd capricious in its power, they would not be mistrusted.
As it is one can't help it. You will say that this force
having been in the person of Flora de Barral captured by
Anthony . . . Why, yes. He had dealt with her
masterfully. But man has captured electricity, too. It
lights him on his v/ay, it warms his home, it will even cook
his dinner for him very much like a woman. But what
sort of conquest would you call it? He knows nothing of
hie captive. He has got to be mighty careful what he is
about with it. And the greater the demand he makes on
it in the exultation of his pride the more likely it is to turn
on him and burn him to a cinder. . . ."

"A far-fetched enough parallel," I observed coldly to
Mario w. He had returned to the arm-chair in the shadow
of the bookcase. "But accepting the meaning you have
in your mind it reduces itself to the knowledge of how to
use it. And if you mean that this ravenous Anthony "

"Havenous is good," interrupted Marlow. "He was a-

ANTHONY AND FLORA 34S

hungering and a-thirsting for femininity to enter his life in
a way no mere feminist could have the slightest conception
of. I reckon that this accounts for much of Fyne's disgust
with him. Good little Fyne. You have no idea what
infernal mischief he had worked during his call at the
hotel. But then who could have suspected Anthony of
being a heroic creature. There are several kinds of hero-
ism and one of them at least is idiotic. It is the one
which wears the aspect of sublime delicacy. It is appar-
ently the one of which the son of the delicate poet was
capable.

He certainly resembled his father, who, by the way, wore
out two women without any satisfaction to himself, be-
cause they did not come up to his supra-refined standard
of the delicacy which is so perceptible in his verses. That's
your poet. He demands too much from others. The
inarticulate son had set up a standard for himself with
that need for embodying in his conduct the dreams, the
passion, the impulses the poet puts into arrangements of
verses, which are dearer to him than his own self and
may make his own self appear sublime in the eyes of other
people, and even in his own eyes.

Did Anthony w r ish to appear sublime in his own eyes?
I should not like to make that charge; though indeed there
are other, less noble, ambitions at which the world does not
dare to smile. But I don't think so; I do not even think
that there was in what he did a conscious and lofty con-
fidence in himself, a particularly pronounced sense of
power which leads men so often into impossible or equivo-
cal situations. Looked at abstractedly (the way in which
truth is often seen in its real shape) his life had been a life
of solitude and silence and desire.

344 CHANCE

Chance had thrown that girl in his way; and if we may
smile at his violent conquest of Flora de Barral we must
admit also that this eager appropriation was truly the
act of a man of solitude and desire; a man also who,
unless a complete imbecile, must have been a man of long
and ardent reveries wherein the faculty of sincere passion
matures slowly in the unexplored recesses of the heart.
And I know also that a passion, dominating or tyrannical,
invading the whole man and subjugating all his faculties
to its own unique end, may conduct him whom it spurs
and drives, into all sorts of adventures, to the brink of
unfathom'able clangers, to the limits of folly, and madness,
and death.

To the man then of a silence made only more impressive
by the inarticulate thunders and mutters of the great seas,
an utter stranger to the clatter of tongues, there comes the
muscular little Fyne, the most marked representative of
that mankind whose voice is so strange to him, the husband
of his sister, a personality standing out from the misty
and remote multitude. He comes and throws at him more
talk than he had ever heard boomed out in an hour, and
certainly touching the deepest things Anthony had ever
discovered in himself, and flings words like "unfair,"
whose very sound is abhorrent to him. Unfair! Undue
advantage ! He ! Unfair to that girl ? Cruel to her !

No scorn could stand against the impression of such
charges advanced with heat and conviction. They
shook him. They were yet vibrating in the air of that
stuffy hotel-room, terrific, disturbing, impossible to get
rid of, when the door opened and Flora de Barral entered.

He did not even notice that she was late. He was
sitting on a sofa plunged in gloom. Was it true? Having

ANTHONY AND FLORA 345

himself always said exactly what he meant he imagined
that people (unless they were liars, which of course his
brother-in-law could not be) never said more than they
meant. The deep chest voice of little Fyne was still in
his ear. "He knows," Anthony said to himself. He
thought he had better go away and never see her again.
But she stood there before him accusing and appealing,
How could he abandon her? That was out of the question.
She had no one. Or rather she had some one. That
father. Anthony was willing to take him at her valuation.
This father may have been the victim of the most atrocious
injustice. But what could a man coming out of jail do?
An old man, too. And then what sort of man? What
would become of them both? Anthony shuddered slightly
and the faint smile with which Flora had entered the room
faded on her lips. She was used to his impetuous tender-
ness. She was no longer afraid of it. But she had never
seen him look like this before, and she suspected at once
some new cruelty of life. He got up with his usual ardour
but as if sobered by a momentous resolve and said:

"No. I can't let you out of my sight. I have seen you.
You have told me your story. You are honest. You
have never told me you loved me."

She waited, saying to herself that he had never given
her time, that he had never asked her. And that, in truth,
she did not know !

I am inclined to believe that she did not. As abundance
of experience is not precisely her lot in life a woman is
seldom an expert in matters of sentiment. It is the man
who can and generally does "see himself" pretty well
inside and out. Women's self-possession is an outward
thing; inwardly they flutter, perhaps because they are. or

346 CHANCE

they feel themselves to be, encaged. All this speaking
generally. In Flora de Barral's particular case ever since
Anthony had suddenly broken his way into her hopeless
and cruel existence she lived like a person liberated from a
condemned cell by a natural cataclysm, a tempest, an
earthquake; not absolutely terrified, because nothing can
be worse than the eve of execution, but stunned, bewil-
dered abandoning herself passively. She did not want
to make a sound, to move a limb. She hadn't the strength.
What was the good? And deep down, almost uncon-
sciously she was seduced by the feeling of being supported
by this violence. A sensation she had never experienced
before in her life.

She felt as if this whirlwind were calming down some-
how! As if this feeling of support, which was tempting
her to close her eyes deliciously and let herself be carried
on and on into the unknown undefiled by vile experiences,
were less certain, had wavered threateningly. She tried
to read something in his face, in that energetic kindly
face to which she had become accustomed so soon. But
she was not yet capable of understanding its expression.
Scared, discouraged on the threshold of adolescence,
plunged in moral misery of the bitterest kind, she had not
learned to read not that sort of language.

If Anthony's love had been as egoistic as love generally
is it would have been greater than the egoism of his vanity
or of his generosity, if you like and all this could not
have happened. He would not have hit upon that renun-
ciation at which one does not know whether to grin or
shudder. It is true, too, that then his love would not have
fastened itself upon the unhappy daughter of De Barral.
But it was n love born of that rare pity which is not akin

ANTHONY AND FLORA 347

to contempt because rooted in an overwhelmingly strong
capacity for tenderness the tenderness of the fiery,,
predatory kind the tenderness of silent, solitary men,
the voluntary, passionate outcasts of their kind. At the
same time I am forced to think that his vanity must have
been enormous.

"What big eyes she has," he said to himself amazed.
No wonder. She was staring at him with all the might of
her soul awakening slowly from a poisoned sleep, in which
it could only quiver with pain but could neither expand
nor move. He plunged into them breathless and tense,
deep, deep, like a mad sailor taking a desperate dive from
the masthead into the blue unfathomable sea so many
men have execrated and loved at the same time. And his
vanity was immense. It had been touched to the quick
by that muscular little feminist, Fyne. "I! I! Take
advantage of her helplessness. I! Unfair to that
creature that wisp of mist, that white shadow homeless
in an ugly, dirty world. I could blow her away with a
breath," he was saying to himself with horror. "Never! "
All the supremely refined delicacy of tenderness, expressed
in so many fine lines of verse by Carleon Anthony, grew
to the size of a passion filling with inward sobs the big
frame of the man who had never in his life read a single one
of those famous sonnets singing of the most highly civil-
ized, chivalrous love, of those sonnets which . . .
You know there's a volume of them. My edition has the
portrait of the author at thirty, and when I showed it to
Mr. Powell the other day he exclaimed: "Wonderful*
One would think this the portrait of Captain Anthony
himself if . . . " I wanted to know what that if was.
But Powell could not say. There was something a

348 CHAJNCE

difference. No doubt there was in fineness, perhaps.
The father fastidious, cerebral, morbidly shrinking from
all contacts, could only sing in harmonious numbers of
what the son felt with a dumb and reckless sincerity.

Possessed by most strong men's touching illusion as to
the frailness of women and their spiritual fragility, it
seemed to Anthony that he would be destroying, breaking
something very precious inside that being. In fact
nothing less than partly murdering her. This seems a
very extreme effect to flow from Fyne's words. But
Anthony, unaccustomed to the chatter of the firm earthy
never stayed to ask himself what value these words could
have in Fyne's mouth. And indeed the mere dark sound
of them was utterly abhorrent to his native rectitude, sea-
salted, hardened in the winds of wide horizons, open as the
day.

He wished to blurt out his indignation, but she regarded
him with an expectant air which checked him. His
visible discomfort made her uneasy. He could only repeat,
"Oh, yes. You are perfectly honest. You might have,
but I daresay you are right. At any rate you have never
said anything to me which you didn't mean/ 5

"Never," she whispered after a pause.

He seemed distracted, choking with an emotion she
could not understand because it resembled embarrass-
ment, a state of mind inconceivable in that man.

She wondered what it was she had said; remembering
that in very truth she had hardly spoken to him except
when giving him the bare outline of her story, which he
seemed to have hardly had the patience to hear, waving
it perpetually aside with exclamations of horror and

ANTHONY AND FLORA 349

anger, with fiercely sombre mutters, " Enough ! Enough ! "
and with alarming starts from a forced stillness as though
he meant to rush out at once and take vengeance on some-
body. She was saying to herself that he caught her words
in the air, never letting her finish her thought. Honest.
Honest. Yes, certainly she had been that. Her letter to
Mrs. Fyne had been prompted by honesty. But she re-
flected sadly that she had never known what to say to him.
That perhaps she had nothing to say.

"But you'll find out that I can be honest, too/ 5 he
burst out in a menacing tone, she had learned to appre-
ciate with an amused thrill.

She waited for what was coming. But he hung in the
wind. He looked round the room with disgust as if he
could see traces on the walls of all the casual tenants that
had ever passed through it. People had quarrelled in that
room; they had been ill in it, there had been misery in that
room, wickedness, crime perhaps death most likely.
This was not a fit place. He snatched up his hat. He
had made up his mind. The ship the ship he had
known ever since she came off the stocks, his home her
shelter the uncontaminated, honest ship, was the
place.

"Let us go on board. We'll talk there," he said.
"And you will have to listen to nie. For whatever
happens, no matter what they say, I cannot let you go/'

You can't say that (misgivings or no misgivings) she
could have done anything else but go on board. It was
the appointed business of that morning. During the
drive he was silent. Anthony was the last man to con-
demn conventionally any human being, to scorn and
despise even deserved misfortune. He was ready to take

350 CHANCE

old De Barral the convict on his daughter's valua-
tion without the slightest reserve. But love like his,
though it may drive one into risky folly by the proud
consciousness of its own strength, has a sagacity of its own.
And now, as if lifted up into a higher and serene region by
its purpose of renunciation, it gave him leisure to reflect
for the first time in these last few days. He said to him-
self: "I don't know that man. She docs not know him
either. She was barely sixteen when they locked him up.
She was a child. What will he say? What will he do?"
No, he concluded, I cannot leave her behind with that man
who would come into the world as if out of a grave.

They went on board in silence, and it was after showing
her round and when they had returned to the saloon that
he assailed her in his fiery, masterful fashion. At first
she did not understand. Then when she understood that
he was giving her her liberty she went stiff all over, her
hand resting on the edge of the table, her face set like a
carving of white marble. It was all over. It was as that
abominable governess had said. She was insignificant,
contemptible. Nobody could love her. Humiliation clung
to her like a cold shroud never to be shaken off un-
warmed by this madness of generosity.

"Yes. Here. Your home. I can't give it to you and
go away, but it is big enough for us two. You need not
be afraid. If you say so I shall not even look at you.
Remember that gray head of which you have been thinking
night and day. Where is it going to rest? Where else if
not here, where nothing evil can touch it. Don't you
understand that I won't let you buy shelter from me at
the cost of your very soul. I won't. You are too much
part of me. I have found myself since I came upon you,

ANTHONY AND FLORA 351

and I would rather sell my own soul to the devil than let
you go out of my keeping. But I must have the right."

He went away brusquely to shut the door leading on
deck and came back the whole length of the cabin re-
peating:

"I must have the legal right. Are you ashamed of
letting people think you are my wife?"

He opened his arms as if to clasp her to his breast, but
mastered the impulse and shook his clenched hands at her
repeating: "I must have the right if only for your
father's sake. I must have the right. Where would you
take him? To that infernal cardboard box maker. I
don't know what keeps me from hunting him up in his
virtuous home and bashing his head in. I can't bear the
thought. Listen to me, Flora! Do you hear what I am
saying to you? You are not so proud that you can't
understand that I as a man have my pride too?"

He saw a tear glide down her white cheek from under
eacli lowered eyelid. Then abruptly, she walked out
of the cabin. He stood for a moment, concentrated,
reckoning his own strength, interrogating his heart, before
he followed her hastily. Already she had reached the
wharf.

At the sound of his pursuing footsteps her strength
failed her. Where could she escape from this? From
this new perfidy of life taking upon itself the form of
magnanimity. His very voice was changed. The sus-
taining whirlwind had let her down, to stumble on again,
weakened by the fresh stab, bereft of moral support which
is wanted in life more than all the charities of material
help. She had never had it. Never. Not from the
Fynes. But where to go? Oh, yes, this dock a placid

352 CHANCE

sheet of water close at hand. But there was that old man
with whom she had walked hand in hand on the parade by
the sea. She seemed to see him coming to meet her,
pitiful, a little grayer, with an appealing look and an ex-
tended, tremulous arm. It was for her now to take the
hand of that wronged man more helpless than a child.
But where could she lead him? Where? And what was
she to say to him? What words of cheer, of courage and
of hope? There were none. Heaven and earth were
mute, unconcerned at their meeting. But this other man
was coming up behind her. He was very close now.
His fiery person seemed to radiate heat, a tingling vibra-
tion into the atmosphere. She was exhausted, careless,
afraid to stumble, ready to fall. She fancied she could
hear his breathing. A wave of languid warmth overtook
her, she seemed to lose touch with the ground under her
feet; and when she felt him slip his hand under her arm
she made no attempt to disengage herself from that grasp
which closed upon her limb, insinuating and firm.

He conducted her through the dangers of the quayside.
Her sight was dim. A moving truck was like a mountain
gliding by. Men passed by as if in a mist; and the
buildings, the sheds, the unexpected open spaces, the
ships, had strange, distorted, dangerous shapes. She
said to herself that it was good not to be bothered with
what all these things meant in the scheme of creation (if
indeed anything had a meaning), or were just piled-up
matter without any sense. She felt how she had always
been unrelated to this world. She was hanging on to it
merely by that one arm grasped firmly just above the
elbow. It was a captivity. So be it. Till they got out
into the street and saw the hansom waiting outside the

ANTHONY AND FLORA 353

gates Anthony spoke only once, beginning brusquely
but in a much gentler tone than she had ever heard from
his lips.

"Of course I ought to have known that you could
not care for a man like rne, a stranger. Silence gives
consent. Yes? Eh? I don't want any of that sort of
consent. And unless some day you find you can speak

. . . No! No! I shall never ask you. For all
the sign I will give you you may go to your grave with
sealed lips. But what I said you must do!"

He bent his head over her with tender care. At the
same time she felt her arm pressed and shaken incon-
spicuously, but in an undeniable manner. "You must
do it." A little shake that no passer-by could notice; and
this was going on in a deserted part of the dock. "It
must be done. You are listening to me eh? or would
you go again to my sister?"

His ironic tone, perhaps from w r ant of use, had an awful
grating ferocity.

"Would you go to her?" he pursued in the same strange
voice. "Your best friend! And say nicely I am
sorry. Would you? No! You couldn't. There are
things that even you, poor dear lost girl, couldn't stand.
Eh? Die rather. That's it. Of course. Or can you be
thinking of taking your father to that infernal cousin's
house? No! Don't speak. I can't bear to think of it.
I would follow you there and smash the door!"

The catch in his voice astonished her by its resemblance
to a sob. It frightened her, too. The thought that came
to her head was : "He mustn't f He was putting her into
the hansom. " Oh ! He mustn't, he mustn't !" She was
still more frightened by the discovery that he was shaking

354 CHANCE

all over. Bewildered, shrinking into the far-off cornei 4
avoiding his eyes, she yet saw the quivering of his mouth
and made a wild attempt at a smile, which broke the
rigidity of her lips and set her teeth chattering suddenly.

"I am not coining with you," he was saying. "I'll tell
the man ... I can't. Better not. What is it?
Are you cold? Come! What is it? Only to go to a
confounded stuffy room, a hole of an office. Not a quar-
ter of an hour. I'll come for you in ten days. Don't
think of it too much. Think of no man, woman or child
of all that silly crowd cumbering the ground. Don't
think of me either. Think of yourself. Ha! Nothing
will be able to touch you then at last. Say nothing.
Don't move. I'll have everything arranged; and as long
as you don't hate the sight of me and you don't
there's nothing to be frightened about. One of their silly
offices with a couple of ink-slingers of no consequence;
poor, scribbling devils."

The hansom drove away with Flora de Barral inside,
without movement, without thought, only too glad to
rest, to be alone, and still moving away without effort,
in solitude and silence.

Anthony roamed the streets for hours without being
able to remember in the evening where he had been
in the manner of a happy and exulting lover. But nobody
could have thought so from his face, which bore no signs
of blissful anticipation. Exulting indeed he was, but it
was a special sort of exultation which seemed to take
him by the throat like an enemy.

Anthony's last words to Flora referred to the registry
office, where they were married ten days later. During
that time Anthony saw no one or anything, though he

ANTHONY AND FLORA 355

went about restlessly, here and there, amongst men and
things. This special state is peculiar to common lovers,
who are known to have no eyes for anything except for the
contemplation, actual or inward, of one human form
which for them contains the soul of the whole world in all
its beauty, perfection, variety, and infinity. It must be
extremely pleasant. But felicity was denied to Roderick
Anthony's contemplation. He was not a common sort of
lover; and he was punished for it as if Nature (which it is
said abhors a vacuum) were so very conventional as
to abhor every sort of exceptional conduct. Roderick
Anthony had begun already to suffer. That is why
perhaps he was so industrious in going about amongst his
fellowmen who would have been surprised and humiliated
had they known how little solidity and even existence they
had in his eyes. But they could not suspect anything so
queer. They saw nothing extraordinary in him during
that fortnight. The proof of this is that they were willing
to transact business with him. Obviously they were;
since it is then that the offer of chartering his ship for the
special purpose of proceeding to the Western Islands was
put in his way by a firm of ship-brokers who had no doubt
of his sanity.

He probably looked sane enough for all the practical
purposes of commercial life. But I am not so certain that
lie really was quite sane at that time.

However he jumped at the offer. Providence itself was
offering him this opportunity to accustom the girl to sea-
life by a comparatively short trip. This was the time
when everything that happened, everything he heard,
casual words, unrelated phrases, seemed a provocation
or an encouragement, confirmed him in his resolution.

356 CHANCE

And indeed to be busy with material affairs is the best
preservative against reflection, fears, doubts all these
things which stand in the way of achievement. I suppose
a fellow proposing to cut his throat would experience a
sort of relief while occupied in stropping his razor carefully.

And Anthony was extremely careful in preparing for
himself and for the luckless Flora an impossible existence.
He went about it with no more tremors than if he had been
stuffed with rags or made of iron instead of flesh and blood.
An existence, mind you, which, on shore, in the thick of
mankind, of varied interests, of distractions, of infinite
opportunities to preserve your distance from each other
is hardly conceivable; but on board ship, at sea, en-tete-a
tele for days and weeks and months together, could mean
nothing but mental torture, an exquisite absurdity of
torment. He was a simple soul. His hopelessly mascu-
line ingenuousness is displayed in a touching way by his
care to procure some woman to attend on Flora. The
condition of guaranteed perfect respectability gave him
moments of anxious thought. When he remembered
suddenly his steward's wife he must have exclaimed
eureka with particular exultation. One does not like to
call Anthony an ass. But really to put any woman within
scenting distance of such a secret and suppose that she
would not track it out !

No woman, however simple, could be as ingenuous as
that. I don't know how Flora de Barral qualified him
in her thoughts when he told her of having done this
amongst other things intended to make her comfortable,
I should think that, for all her simplicity, she must have
been appalled. He stood before her on the appointed day
outwardly calmer than she had ever seen him before.

ANTHONY AND FLORA 357

And this very calmness, that scrupulous attitude which he
felt bound in honour to assume then and forever, unless
she would condescend to make a sign at some future time,
added to the heaviness of her heart innocent of the most
pardonable guile.

The night before she had slept better than she had done
for the past ten nights. Both youth and weariness will
assert themselves in the end against the tyranny of nerve-
racking stress. She had slept, but she woke up with her
eyes full of tears. There were no traces of them when she
met him in the shabby little parlour downstairs. She had
swallowed them up. She was not going to let him see.
She felt bound in honour to accept the situation for ever
and ever unless . . . Ah, unless . . . She dis-
sembled all her sentiments, but it was not duplicity on her
part. All she wanted was to get at the truth; to see what
would come of it.

She beat him at his own honourable game and the
thoroughness of her serenity disconcerted Anthony a bit.
It was he who stammered when it came to talking. That
suppressed fierceness of his character carried him on after
the first word or two masterfully enough. But it was as
if they both had taken a bite of the same bitter fruit. He
was thinking with mournful regret not unmixed with
surprise: "That fellow Fyne has been telling me the
truth. She does not care for me a bit." It humiliated
him and also increased his compassion for the girl who in
this darkness of life, buffeted and despairing, had fallen
into the grip of his stronger will, abandoning herself to his
arms as on a night of shipwreck. Flora on her side with
partial insight (for women are never blind with the com-
plete masculine blindness) looked on him with some pity:

358 CHANCE

and she felt pity for herself, too. It was a rejection, a
casting out; nothing new to her. But she who supposed
all her sensibility dead by this time, discovered in herself
a resentment of this ultimate betrayal. She had no res-
ignation for this one. With a sort of mental sullenness
she said to herself: "Well, I am here. I am here without
any nonsense. It is not my fault that I am a mere worth-
less object of pity."

And these things which she could tell herself with a clear
conscience served her better than the passionate obstinacy
of purpose could serve Roderick Anthony. She was
much more sure of herself than he was. Such are the
advantages of mere rectitude over the most exalted
generosity.

And so they went out to get married, the people of the
house where she lodged having no suspicion of anything
of the sort. They were only excited at a "gentleman
friend " (a very fine man too) calling on Miss Smith for the
first time since she had come to live in the house. When
she returned, for she did come back alone, there were
allusions made to that outing. She had to take her meals
with these rather vulgar people. The woman of the house,
a scraggy genteel person, tried even to provoke confidences.
Flora's white face with the deep blue eyes did not strike
their hearts as it did the heart of Captain Anthony, as the
very face of the suffering world. Her pained reserve had
no power to awe them into decency.

Well, she returned alone as in fact might have been
expected. After leaving the Registry Office Flora de
Barral and Roderick Anthony had gone for a walk in a
park. It must have been an East-end park, but I am not
sure. Aoiyway that's what they did. It was a sunny day.

ANTHONY AND FLORA 359

He said to her: "Everything I have in the world belongs to
you. I have seen to that without troubling my brother-in-
law. They have no call to interfere."

She walked with her hand resting lightly on his arm.
He had offered it to her on coming out of the Registry
Office, and she had accepted it silently. Her head
drooped, she seemed to be turning matters over in her
mind. She said, alluding to the Fynes: "They have been
very good to me." At that he exclaimed:

"They have never understood you. Well, not properly.
My sister is not a bad woman, but ..."

Flora didn't protest; asking herself whether he imagined
that he himself understood her so much better. Anthony
dismissing his family out of his thoughts went on: "Yes.
Everything is yours. I have kept nothing back. As to
the piece of paper we have just got from that miserable
quill-driver, if it wasn't for the law I wouldn't mind if you
tore it up here, now, on this spot. But don't you do it.
Unless you should some day feel that "

He choked, unexpectedly. She, reflective, hesitated a
moment, then made up her mind bravely.

"Neither am I keeping anything back from you."

She had said it ! But he in his blind generosity assumed
that she was alluding to her deplorable history and has-
tened to mutter:

"Of course! Of course! Say no more. I have been
lying awake thinking of it all, no end of times."

He made a movement with his other arm as if restrain-
ing himself from shaking an indignant fist at the universe;
and she never even attempted to look at him. His voice
sounded strangely, incredibly lifeless in comparison with
these tempestuous accents that in the broad fields, in the

360 CHANCE

dark garden, had seemed to shake the very earth under
her weary and hopeless feet.

She regretted them. Hearing the sigh which escaped
her Anthony instead of shaking his fist at the universe
began to pat her hand resting on his arm and then desisted,
suddenly, as though he had burnt himself. Then after a
silence:

"You will have to go by yourself to-morrow. I
. . . No, I think I mustn't come. Better not. What
you two will have to say to each other "

She interrupted him quickly.

" Father is an innocent man. He was cruelly wronged".

"Yes. That's why," Anthony insisted earnestly . "And
you are the only human being that can make it up
to him. You alone must reconcile him with the world
if anything can. But of course you shall. You'll have to
find words. Oh, you'll know. And then the sight of you
alone would soothe "

"He's the gentlest of men," she interrupted again.

Anthony shook his head. "It would take no end of
generosity, no end of gentleness to forgive such a dead set.
For my part I would have liked better to have been killed
and done with at once. It could not have been worse for
you and I suppose it was of you that he was thinking
most while those infernal lawyers were badgering him in
court. Of you. And now I think of it perhaps the sight
of you may bring it all back to him. All these years, all
these years and you his child left alone in the world. I
would have gone crazy. For even if he had done wrong "

"But he hasn't," insisted Flora de Barral with a quiet,
unexpected fierceness. "You mustn't even suppose it,
Haren't you read the accounts of the trial?"

ANTHONY AND FLORA 361

"I am not supposing anything," Anthony defended
himself. He just remembered hearing of the trial. He
assured her that he was away from England, the second
voyage of the Ferndale. He was crossing the Pacific from
Australia at the time and didn't see any papers for weeks
and weeks. He interrupted himself to suggest:

"You had better tell him at once that you are
happy."

He had stammered a little, and Flora de Barral uttered
a deliberate and concise "Yes."

A short silence ensued. She withdrew her hand from
his arm. They stopped. Anthony looked as if a totally
unexpected catastrophe had happened.

"Ah," he said. "You mind ..."

"No! I think I had better," she murmured.

"I daresay. I daresay. Bring him along straight on
board to-morrow. Stop nowhere."

She had a movement of vague gratitude, a momentary
feeling of peace which she referred to the man before her.
She looked up at Anthony. His face was sombre. He
was miles away and muttered as if to himself:

"Where could he want to stop, though?"

"There's not a single being on earth that I would want
to look at his dear face now, to whom I would willingly
take him," she said feelingly, extending her hand frankly,
and with a slight break in her voice " but you
Roderick."

He took that hand, felt it very small and delicate in
his broad palm.

"That's right. That's right," he said with a conscious
and hasty heartiness and, as if suddenly ashamed of the
sound of his voice, turned half round and absolutely

362 CHANCE

walked away from the motionless girl. He even resisted
the temptation to look back till it was too late. The
gravel path lay empty to the very gate of the park. She
was gone vanished. He had an impression that he
had missed some sort of chance. He felt sad. That
excited sense of his own conduct which had kept him up
for the last ten or more days buoyed him no more. He
had succeeded!

He strolled on aimlessly a prey to gentle melancholy.
He walked and walked. There were but few people
about in this breathing space of a poor neighbourhood.
Under certain conditions of life there is precious little
time left for mere breathing. But still a few here and
there were indulging in that luxury; and yet few as they
were Captain Anthony, though the least exclusive of men,
resented their presence. Solitude had been his best
friend. He wanted some place where he could sit down
and be alone. And in his need his thoughts turned to the
sea which had given him so mu'cli of that congenial solitude.
There, if always with his ship (but that was an integral
part of him) he could always be as solitary as he chose.
Yes. Get out to sea !

The night of the town with its strings of lights, rigid and
crossed like a net of flames, thrown over the sombre
immensity of walls, closed round him, with its artificial
brilliance overhung by an emphatic blackness, its unnat-
ural animation of a restless, overdriven humanity.
His thoughts which somehow were inclined to pity every
passing figure, every single person glinipsr* 1 n nder a street
lamp, fixed themselves at hist upon a figure which certainly
could not have been seen under the lamps on that particu-
lar night, A figure unknown to him. A figure shut up

ANTHONY AND FLORA 36S

within high unscalable walls of stone or bricks till next
morning . . . The figure of Flora de Barral's father.
De Barral the financier the convict.

There is something in that word with its suggestions of
guilt and retribution which arrests the thought. We feel
ourselves in the presence of the power of organized society

a thing mysterious in itself and still more mysterious in
its effects. Whether guilty or innocent, it was as if old de
Barral had been down to the Nether Regions. Impossible
to imagine what he would bring out from there to the
light of this world of uncondemned men. What would
he think? What would lie have to say? And what was
one to say to him?

Anthony, a little awed, as one is by a range of feelings
stretching beyond one's grasp, comforted himself by the
thought that probably the old fellow would have little
to say. He wouldn't want to talk about it. No man
would. It must have been a real hell to him.

And then Anthony, at the end of the day in which he
had gone through a marriage ceremony with Flora de
Barral, ceased to think of Flora's father except as in some
sort the captive of his triumph. He turned to the mental
contemplation of the white, delicate, and appealing face
with great blue eyes which he had seen weep and wonder
and look profoundly at him, sometimes with incredulity,
sometimes with doubt and pain, but always irresistible in
the power to find their way right into his breast, to stir
there a deep response which was something more than love

he said to himself as men understand it. More?
Or was it only something other? Yes. It was something
other. More or less. Something as incredible as the
fulfilment of an amazing and startling dream in which he

364 CHANCE

could take the world in his arms all the suffering world,
not to possess its pathetic fairness but to console and
cherish its sorrow.

Anthony walked slowly to the ship and that night slept
without dreams.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE GREAT DE BARRAL

K1NOVATED certainly the saloon of the Ferndale
was to receive the "strange woman." The mel-
lowness of its old fashioned, tarnished decoration
was gone. And Anthony looking round saw the glitter,
the gleams, the colour of new things, untried, unused, very
bright too bright. The workmen had gone only last
night; and the last piece of work they did was the hanging of
the heavy curtains which looped midway the length of the
saloon divided it in two if released, cutting off the after
end with its companion way leading direct on the poop
from the forepart with its outlet on the deck; making a
privacy within a privacy, as though Captain Anthony
could not place obstacles enough between his new happi-
ness and the men who shared his life at sea. He inspected
that arrangement with an approving eye, then made a
particular visitation of the whole, ending by opening a
door which led into a large stateroom made of two knocked
into one. It was very well furnished and had, instead of
the usual bedplace of such cabins, an elaborate swinging
cot of the latest pattern. Anthony tilted it a little by way
of trial. "The old man will be very comfortable in here,"
he said to himself, and stepped back into the saloon, clos-
ing the door gently. Then another thought occurred to
him obvious under the circumstance but presenting itself
for the first time: "Jove! Won't he get a shock!"

365

366 CHANCE

He went hastily on deck. "Mr. Franklin, Mr. Frank-
lin." The mate was not very far. "Oh! Here you are.
Miss . . . Mrs. Anthony'll be coming on board
presently. Just give me a call when you see the cab."

Then, without noticing the gloominess of the mate's
countenance, he went in again. Not a friendly word, not a
professional remark, or a small joke, not as much as a
simple and inane "fine day." Nothing. Just turned
about and went in.

We know that when the moment came, he thought
better of it and decided to meet Flora's father in that
privacy of the main cabin which lie had been so careful to
arrange. Why Anthony appeared to shrink from the con-
tact, he who was sufficiently self-confident not only to face
but to absolutely create a situation almost insane in its
audacious generosity, is difficult to explain. Perhaps
when he came on the poop for a glance he found that man
so different outwardly from what he expected that he
decided to meet him for the first time out of everybody's
sight. Possibly the general secrecy of his relation to the
girl might have influenced him. Truly he may well have
been dismayed. That man's coming brought him face to
face with the necessity to speak and act a lie; to appear
what he was not and what he could never be, unless,
unless

In short we'll say if you like that for various reasons^
all having to do with the delicate rectitude of his nature,
Roderick Anthony (a man of whom his chief mate used
to say: he doesn't know what fear is) was frightened.
There is a Nemesis which overtakes 'generosity, too, like
all the other imprudences of men who dare to be lawless
and proud ..."

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 367

"Why do you say this?" I inquired, for Marlow had
stopped abruptly and kept silent in the shadow of the
bookcase.

"I say this because that man whom chance had thrown
in Flora's way was both: lawless and proud. Whether he
knew anything about it or not it does not matter. Very
likely not. One may fling a glove in the face of Nature
and in the face of one's own moral endurance quite inno-
cently, with a simplicity which wears the aspect of perfectly
Satanic conceit. However, as I have said, it does not
matter. It's a transgression all the same and has got to be
paid for in the usual way. But never mind that. I
paused because, like Anthony, I find a difficulty, a sort of
dread in coming to grips with old de Barral.

You remember I had a glimpse of him once. He was
not an imposing personality: tall, thin, straight, stiff,
faded, moving with short steps and with a gliding motion,
speaking in an even, low voice. When the sea was rough
he wasn't much seen on deck at least not walking. He
caught hold of things then and dragged himself along as
far as the after skylight, where he would sit for hours.
Our, then young, friend offered once to assist him and this
service was the first beginning of a sort of friendship. He
clung hard to one Powell says, with no figurative inten-
tion. Powell was always on the lookout to assist, and to
assist mainly Mrs. Anthony, because he clung so jolly hard
to her that Powell was afraid of her being dragged down,
notwithstanding that she very soon became very sure-
footed in all sorts of weather. And Powell was the only
one ready to assist at hand because Anthony (by that
time) seemed to be afraid to come near them; the unfor-
giving Franklin always looked wrathfully the other way;

368 CHANCE

the boatswain if up there acted in the same way, sheep-
ishly, and any hands that happened to be on the poop (a
feeling spreads mysteriously all over a ship) shunned Mr.
Smith as though he had been the devil.

We know how he arrived on board. For my part I
know so little of prisons that I haven't the faintest notion
how one leaves them. It seems as abominable an opera-
tion as the other, the shutting up with its mental sugges-
tions of bang, snap, crash, and the empty silence outside
where an instant before you were you were and now
no longer are. Perfectly devilish. And the release! I
don't know which is worse. How do they do it? Pull the
string, door flies open, man flies through: out you go!
Adios! And in the space where a second before you were
not, in the silent space there is a figure going away, limping.
Why limping? I don't know. That's how I see it. One
has a notion of a maiming, crippling process; of the individ-
ual coming back damaged in some subtle way. I admit it
is a fantastic hallucination, but I can't help it. Of course
I know that the proceedings of the best machine-made
humanity are employed with judicious care and so on. I
am absurd, no doubt, but still . . . Oh, yes, it's
idiotic. When I pass one of these places . . . did you
notice that there is something infernal about the aspect of
every individual stone or brick of them, something mali-
cious as if matter were enjoying its revenge of the con-
temptuous spirit of man. Did you notice? You didn't?
Eh? Well, I am perhaps a little mad on that point. When I
pass one of these places I must avert my eyes. I couldn't
have gone to meet de Barral. I should have shrunk from
the ordeal. You'll notice that it looks as if Anthony (a
brave man indubitably) had shirked it too. Little Fyne's

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 369

flight of fancy picturing three people in the fatal four-
wheeler you remember? went wide of the truth.
There were only two people in the four-wheeler. Flora
did not shrink. Women can stand anything. The dear
creatures have no imagination when it comes to solid facts
of life. In sentimental regions I won't say. It's an-
other thing altogether. There they shrink from or rush
to embrace ghosts of their own creation just the same as
any fool-man would.

No. I suppose the girl Flora went on that errand
reasonably. And then, why! This was the moment for
which she had lived. It was her only point of contact
with existence. Oh, yes. She had been assisted by the
Fynes. And kindly. Certainly. Kindly. But that's not
enough. There is a kind way of assisting our fellow
creatures which is enough to break their hearts while it
saves their outer envelope. How cold, how infernally cold
she must have felt unless when she was made to burn
with indignation or shame. Man, we know, cannot live
by bread alone, but hang me if I don't believe that some
women could live by love alone. If there be a flame in
human beings fed by varied ingredients earthly and spirit-
ual which tinge it in different hues, then I seem to see the
colour of theirs. It is azure . . . What the devil
are you laughing at ..."

Marlow jumped up and strode out of the shadow as if
lifted by indignation, but there was the flicker of a smile
on his lips. "You say I don't know women. Maybe.
It's just as well not to come too close to the shrine. But I
have a clear notion of woman. In all of them, termagant,
flirt, crank, washerwoman, blue-stocking, outcast and even
in the ordinary fool of the ordinary commerce, there is

370 CHANCE

something left, if only a spark. And when there is a spark

there can always be a flame. . . ."

He went back into the shadow, sat down again and said :

"I don't mean to say that Flora de Barral was one
of the sort that could live by love alone. In fact she had
managed to live without. But still, in the distrust of
herself and of others she looked for love, any kind of love,
as women will. And that confounded jail was the only
spot where she could see it for she had no reason to dis-
trust her father.

She was there in good time. I sec her gazing across the
road at these walls which are, properly speaking, awful.
You do indeed seem to feel along the very lines and angles
of the unholy bulk, the fall of time, drop by drop, hour by
hour, leaf by leaf, with a gentle and implacable slowness.
And a voiceless melancholy corncs over one, invading, over-
powering like a dream, penetrating and mortal like poison.
When de Barral came out she experienced a sort of
shock to see that he was exactly as she remembered him.
Perhaps a little smaller. Otherwise unchanged. You
come out in the same clothes, you know. I can't tell
whether he was looking for her. No doubt he was.
Whether he recognized her? Very likely. She crossed
the road and at once there was reproduced at a distance of
years, as if by some mocking witchcraft, the sight so famil-
iar on the Parade at Hove of the financier <!e Barral
walking with his only daughter. One comes out of prison
in the same clothes one wore on the day of condemnation,
no matter how long one has been put away there. Oh,
they last! They last. But there is something which is
preserved by prison life even better than one's discarded
clothing. It is the force, the vividness of one's sentiments.

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 371

A monastery will do that, too; but in the unholy claustra-
tion of a jail you are thrown back wholly upon yourself
for God and Faith are not there. The people outside
disperse their affections, you hoard yours, you nurse them
into intensity. What they let slip, what they forget in
the movement and changes of free life, you hold on to,
amplify, exaggerate into a monstrous growth of memories.
They can look with a smile at the troubles and pains of the
past; but you can't. Old pains keep on gnawing at your
heart, old desires, old deceptions, old dreams, assailing you
in the dead stillness of your present where nothing moves
except the irrecoverable minutes of your life.

De Barral was out and, for a time, speechless, being led
away almost before he had taken possession of the free
world, by his daughter. Flora controlled herself well.
They walked along quickly for some distance. The cab
had been left round the corner round several corners for
all I know. He was flustered, out of breath, when she
helped him in and followed herself. Inside that rolling
box, turning toward that recovered presence with her
heart too full for words, she felt the desire of tears she had
managed to keep down abandon her suddenly, her half-
mournful, half-triumphant exultation subside, every fibre
of her body relaxed in tenderness go stiff in the close look
she took at his face. He was different. There was some-
thing. Yes, there was something between them, some-
thing hard and impalpable, the ghost of these high walls.

How old he was, how unlike!

She shook off this impression, amazed and frightened by
it, of course. And remorseful, too. Naturally. She
threw her arms round his neck. He returned that hug
awkwardly, as if not in perfect control of his arms, with a

372 CHANCE

fumbling and uncertain pressure. She Lid her face on his
breast. It was as though she were pressing it against a
stone. They released each other and presently the cab
was rolling along at a jog-trot to the docks with those two
people as far apart as they could get from each other, in
opposite corners.

After a silence given up to mental examination he
uttered his first coherent sentence outside the walls of the
prison.

"What has done for me was envy. Envy. There was
a lot of them just bursting with it every time they looked
my way. I was doing too well. So they went to the pub-
lic prosecutor "

She said hastily "Yes! Yes! I know," and he glared
as if resentful that the child had turned into a young
woman without waiting for him to come out. "What do
you know about it?" he asked. "You were too young."
His speech was soft. The old voice, the old voice! It
gave her a thrill. She recognized its pointless gentleness
always the same no matter what he had to say. And she
remembered that he never had much to say when he came
down to see her. It was she who chattered, chattered,
on their walks, while stiff and with a rigidly carried head,
he dropped a gentle word now and then.

Moved by these recollections waking up within her, she
explained to him that within the last year she had read and
studied the report of the trial.

"I went through the files of several papers, papa."

He looked at her suspiciously. The reports were prob-
ably very incomplete. No doubt the reporters had
garbled his evidence. They were determined to give him
no chance either in court or before the public opinion.

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 373

It was a conspiracy. . . . "My counsel was a fool,
too," he added. "Did you notice? A perfect fool."

She laid her hand on his arm soothingly. "Is it worth
while talking about that awful time? It is so far away
now." She shuddered slightly at the thought of all the
lorrible years which had passed over her young head;
never guessing that for him the time was but yesterday,
He folded his arms on his breast, leaned back in his corner
and bowed his head. But in a little while he made her
jump by asking suddenly:

"Who has got hold of the Lone Valley Railway?
That's what they were after mainly. Somebody has got
it. Parfitts and Co., grabbed it eh? Or was it that
fellow Warner "

"I I don't know," she said quite scared by the
twitching of his lips.

"Don't know!" he exclaimed softly. Hadn't her
cousin told her? Oh, yes. She had left them of course.
Why did she? It was his first question about herself,
but she did not answer it. She did not want to talk of
these horrors. They were impossible to describe. She
perceived though that he had not expected an answer,
because she heard him muttering to himself that: "There
was half a million's worth of work done and material
accumulated there."

"You mustn't think of these things, papa," she said
firmly. And he asked her with that invariable gentleness^
in which she seemed now to detect some rather ugly shades,
what else had he to think about? Another year or two,
if they had only left him alone, he and everybody else
would have been all right, rolling in money; and she, his
daughter, could have married anybody anybody. A lord.

374 CHANCE

All this was to him like yesterday, a long yesterday,
a yesterday gone over innumerable times, analyzed,
meditated upon for years. It had a vividness and force
for that old man of which his daughter who had not been
shut out of the world could have no idea. She was to him
the only living figure out of that past, and it was perhaps
in perfect good faith that he added, coldly, inexpressive
and thin-lipped: "I lived only for you, I may say. I sup-
pose you understand that. There were only you and

me,"

Moved by this declaration, wondering that it did not
warm her heart more, she murmured a few endearing words
while the uppermost thought in her mind was that she
must tell him now of the situation. She had expected to
be questioned anxiously about herself and while she
desired it she shrank from the answers she w 7 ould have to
make. But her father seemed strangely, unnaturally
incurious. It looked as if there would be no questions.
Still this was an opening. This seemed to be the time for
her to begin. And she began. She began by saying
that she had always felt like that. There were two of
them, to live for each other. And if he only knew what
she had gone through!

Ensconced in his corner, with his arms folded, he stared
out of the cab window at the street. How little he was
changed after all. It was the uninovable expression, the
faded stare she used to see on the esplanade whenever
walking by his side hand in hand she raised her eyes to his
face while she chattered, chattered. It was the same
stiff, silent figure which at a word from her would turn
rigidly into a shop and buy anything it occurred to her that
she would like to have. Flora de Barral's voice faltered.

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 375

He bent on her that well-remembered glance in which she
had never read anything as a child, except the conscious-
ness of her existence. And that was enough for a child
who had never known demonstrative affection. But she
had lived a life so starved of all feeling that this was no
longer enough for her. What was the good of telling him
the story of all these miseries now past and gone, of all
those bewildering difficulties and humiliations? What
she must tell him was difficult enough to say. She ap-
proached it by remarking cheerfully :

"You haven't even asked me where I am taking you."

He started like a somnambulist awakened suddenly,
and there was now some meaning in his stare; a sort of
alarmed speculation. He opened his mouth slowly.
Flora struck in with forced gayety. "You would never
guess."

He waited, still more startled and suspicious. "Guess!
Why don't you tell me? "

He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward toward her.
She got hold of one of his hands. "You must know
first ..." She paused, made an effort: "I am
married, papa."

For a moment they kept perfectly still in that cab
rolling on at a steady jog-trot through a narrow city
street full of bustle. Whatever she expected she did not
expect to feel his hand snatched away from her grasp as
if from a burn or a contamination. De Barral fresh from
the stagnant torment of the prison (where nothing
happens) had not expected that sort of news. It seemed
to stick in his throat. In strangled low tones he cried
out: "You married? You, Flora! When? Married!
What for? Who to? Married!"

S76 CHANCE

His eyes, which were blue like hers, only faded, without
depth, seemed to start out of their orbits. He did really
look as if he were choking. He even put his hand to
his collar . . .

You know, continued Marlow out of the shadow of
the bookcase and nearly invisible in the depths of the
armchair, the only time I saw him he had given me the
impression of absolute rigidity, as though he had swal-
lowed a poker. But it seems that he could collapse. I
can hardly picture this to myself. I understand that he
did collapse to a certain extent in his corner of the cab.
The unexpected had crumpled him up. She regarded him
perplexed, pitying, a little disillusioned, and nodded at him
gravely: Yes. Married. What she did not like was to
see him smile in a manner far from encouraging to the
devotion of a daughter. There was something uninten-
tionally savage in it. Old de Barral could not quite com-
mand his muscles, as yet. But he had recovered com-
mand of his gentle voice.

"You were just saying that in this wide world there
were only you and I, to stick to each other/'

She was dimly aware of the scathing intention lurking
in these soft low tones, in these words which appealed to
her poignantly. She defended herself. Never, never for
a single moment had she ceased to think of him. Neither
did he cease to think of her, he said, with as much sinister
emphasis as he was capable of.

"But papa," she cried, "I haven't been shut up like
you." She didn't mind speaking of it because he was
innocent. He hadn't been understood. It was a mis-
fortune of the most cruel kind but r?n more <[ < -rueful

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 377

than an illness, a maiming accident or some other visitatiou
of blind fate. "I wish I had been, too. But I was alone
out in the world, the horrid world, that very world which
had used you so badly."

"And you couldn't go about in it without finding some-
body to fall in love with?" he said. A jealous rage
affected his brain like the fumes of wine, rising from some
secret depths of his being so long deprived of all emotions.
The hollows at the corners of his lips became more pro-
nounced in the puffy roundness of his cheeks. Images,
visions, obsess with particular force men withdrawn from
the sights and sounds of active life. "Arid I did nothing
but think of you!" he exclaimed under his breath, con-
temptuously. "Think of you! You haunted me, I tell

you."

Flora said to herself that there was a being who loved
her. "Then we have been haunting each other/' she
declared with a pang of remorse. For indeed he had
haunted her nearly out of the world, into a final and
irremediable desertion. "Some day I shall tell you

. . . No. I don't think I can ever tell you. There
was a time when I was mad. But what's the good? It's
all over now. We shall forget all this. There shall be
nothing to remind us."

De Barral moved his shoulders.

" I should think you were mad to tie yourself to ...
How long is it since you are married?"

She answered, "Not long," that being the only answer
she dared to make. Everything was so different from
what she imagined it would be. He wanted to know
why she had said nothing of it in any of her letters; in her
last letter. She said:

378 CHANCE

"It was after."

"So recently!" he wondered. "Couldn't you wait at
least till I came out? You could have told me; asked me;
consulted me ! Let me see "

She shook her head negatively. And he was appalled,
He thought to himself: Who can he be? Some miserable,
silly youth without a penny. Or perhaps some scoundrel?
Without making any expressive movement he wrung his
loosely clasped hands till the joints cracked. He looked
at her. She was pretty. Some low scoundrel who will
cast her off. Some plausible vagabond. . . . "You
couldn't wait eh? "

Again she made a slight negative sign.

"Why not? What was the hurry? She cast down her
eyes. "It had to be. Yes. It was sudden, but it had
to be."

He leaned toward her, his mouth open, his eyes wild
with virtuous anger, but meeting the absolute candour of
her raised glance threw himself back into his corner again.

"So tremendously in love with each other was that
it? Couldn't let a father have his daughter all to hiruself
even for a day after after such a separation. And you
know I never had any one, I had no friends. What did I
want with those people one meets in the city. The best
of them are ready to cut your throat. Yes! Business
men, gentlemen, any sort of men and women out of
spite, or to get something. Oh, yes, they can talk fair
enough if they think there's something to be got out of
you. . . ." His voice was a mere breath yet every
word came to Flora as distinctly as if charged with all the
moving power of passion. . . . "My girl, I looked at
them making up to me and I would say to myself : What

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 379

do I care for all that! I am a business man. I am the
great Mr. de Barral (yes, yes, some of them twisted their
mouths at it, but I was the great Mr. de Barral) and I have
my littte girl. I wanted nobody and I have never had
anybody."

A true emotion had unsealed his lips, but the words that
came out of them were no louder than the murmur of a
light wind. It died away.

"That's just it," said Flora de Barral under her breath.
Without removing his eyes from her he took off his hat.
It was a tall hat. The hat of the trial. The hat of the
thumb-nail sketches in the illustrated papers. One comes
out in the same clothes, but seclusion counts! It is well-
known that lurid visions haunt secluded men, monks,
hermits then why not prisoners? De Barral the convict
cook off the silk hat of the financier. deBarral and deposited
it on the front seat of the cab. Then he blew out his
cheeks. He was red in the face.

"And then what happens?" he began again in his
contained voice. "Here I am, overthrown, broken by
envy, malice, and all uncharitableness. I come out and
what do I find? I find that my girl Flora has gone and
married some man or other, perhaps a fool, how do I
know; or perhaps anyway not good enough."

"Stop, papa."

"A silly love affair as likely as not," he continued
monotonously, his thin lips writhing between the ill-
omened sunk corners. "And a very suspicious thing
it is, too, on the part of a loving daughter."

She tried to interrupt him, but he went on till she actu-
ally clapped her hand on his mouth. He rolled his eye* a
bit, but when she took her hand away he remained silent.

380 CHANCE

"Wait. I must tell you. . . . And first of all,
papa, understand this, for everything's in that: he is the
most generous man in the world. He is ... "

De Barral very still in his corner uttered with an effort:

"You are in love with him."

"Papa! He came to me. I was thinking of you. I
had no eyes for anybody. I could no longer bear to thipk
of you. It was then that he came. Only then. At that
time when when I was going to give up."

She gazed into his faded blue eyes as if yearning to be
understood, to be given encouragement, peace a word of
sympathy. He declared without animation:

"I would like to break his neck."

She had the mental exclamation of the overburdened.
"Oh, niy God!" and watched him with frightened eyes.
But he did not appear insane or in any other way formid-
able. This comforted her. The silence lasted for some
little time. Then suddenly he asked :

"What's your name then?"

For a moment in the profound trouble of the task before
her she did not understand what the question meant.
Then, her face faintly flushing, she whispered: "Anthony."

Her father, a red spot on each cheek, leaned his head
back wearily in the corner of the cab.

"Anthony. What is he? Where did he spring from?"

"Papa, it was in the country, on a road "

He groaned, "On a road," and closed his eyes.

"It's too long to explain to you now. We shall have
lots of time. There arc things I could not tell you now.
But some day. Some day. For now nothing can part
us. Nothing. We are safe as long as we live nothing
can ever come between us."

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 381

"You are infatuated with the fellow/' he remarked,
without opening his eyes. And she said: "I believe in
him/* in a low voice. "You and I must believe in him!"

"Who the devil is he?"

"He's the brother of the lady you know Mrs, Fyne,
she knew mother who was so kind to me. I was stay-
ing in the country, in a cottage, with Mr. and Mrs. Fyne.
It was there that we met. He came on a visit. He no-
ticed me. I well we are married now/'

She was thankful that his eyes were shut. It made it
easier to talk of the future she had arranged, which now
was an unalterable thing. She did not enter on the path
of confidences. That was impossible. She felt he would
not understand her. She felt also that he suffered. Now
and then a great anxiety gripped her heart with a myster-
ious sense of guilt as though she had betrayed him into
the hands of an enemy. With his eyes shut he had an air
of weary and pious meditation. She was a little afraid of
it. Next moment a great pity for him filled her heart.
And. in the background there was remorse. His face
twitched now and then just perceptibly. He managed to
keep his eyelids down till he heard that the "husband " was
a sailor and that he, the father, was being taken straight on
board ship ready to sail away from this abominable world
of treacheries, and scorns and envies and lies, away, away
over the blue sea, the sure, the inaccessible, the uncon-
taminated and spacious refuge for wounded souls.

Something like that. Not the very words perhaps, but
such was the general sense of her overwhelming argument
the argument of refuge,

I don't think she gave a thought to material conditions.
But as part of that argument set forth breathlessly, as if she

382 CHANCE

were afraid that if she stopped for a moment she could
never go on again, she mentioned that generosity of a
stormy type which had come to her from the sea, had
caught her up on the brink of unmentionable failure, had
whirled her away in its first ardent gust and could be
trusted now, implicitly trusted, to carry them both, side
by side, into absolute safety..

She believed it, she affirmed it. He understood thor-
oughly at last, and at once the interior of that cab, of
an aspect so pacific in the eyes of the people on the pave-
ments, became the scene of a great agitation. The gener-
osity of Roderick Anthony the son of the poet
affected the ex-financier de Barral in a manner which must
have brought home to Flora de Barral the extreme
arduousness of the business of being a woman. Being a
woman is a terribly difficult trade since it consists princi-
pally of dealings with men. This man the man inside
the cab cast off his stiff placidity and behaved like an
animal. I don't mean it in an offensive sense. What he
did was to give way to an instinctive panic. Like some
wild creature scared by the first touch of a net falling* on its
back, old de Barral began to struggle, lank and angular,
against the empty air as much of it as there was in the
cab with staring eyes and gasping mouth, from which
his daughter shrank as far as she could in the confined
space.

"Stop the cab. Stop him, I tell you. Let me get out !"
were the strangled exclamations she heard. Why? What
for? To do what? He would hear nothing. She cried
to him, "Papa! Papa! What do you want to do?"
And all she got from him was: "Stop. I must get out,
I want to think. I must get out to think."

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 383

It was a mercy that he didn't attempt to open the door
at once. He only stuck his head and shoulders out of the
window, crying to the cabman. She saw the consequences,
the cab stopping, a crowd collecting around a raving old
gentleman. ... In this terrible business of being a
woman so full of fine shades, of delicate perplexities (and
very small rewards) you can never know what rough work
you may have to do, at any moment. Without hesitation
Flora seized her father round the body and pulled back
being astonished at the ease with which she managed to
make him drop into his seat again. She kept him there
resolutely with one hand pressed against his breast, and
leaning across him, she, in her turn put her head and
shoulders out of the window. By then the cab had
drawn up to the curbstone and was stopped. "No ! I've
changed my mind. Go on please where you were told
first. To the docks."

She wondered at the steadiness of her own voice. She
heard a grunt from the driver and the cab began io roll
again. Only then she sank into her place, keeping a
walchful eye on her companion. He was hardly anything
more by this time. Except for her childhood's impressions
he was just a man. Almost a stranger. How was one
to deal with him? And there was the other, too. Also
almost a stranger. The trade of being a woman was very
difficult. Too difficult. Flora closed her eyes, saying to
herself: "If I think too much about it I shall go mad."
And then opening them she asked her father if the pros-
pect of living always with his daughter and being taken
care of by her affection away from the world, which had no
honour to give to his gray hairs, was such an awful
prospect

384 CHANCE

"Tell me, is it so bad as that?"

She put that question sadly, without bitterness. The
famous or notorious de Barral had lost his rigidity
now. He was bent. Nothing more deplorably futile
than a bent poker. He said nothing. She added gently,
suppressing an uneasy, remorseful sigh:

"And it might have been worse. You might have
found no one, no one in all this town, no one in all the
world, not even me! Poor papa!"

She made a conscience-stricken movement toward him,
thinking: "Oh! I am horrible, I am horrible." And old
de Barral, scared, tired, bewildered by the extraordinary
shocks of his liberation, swayed over and actually leaned
his head on her shoulder, as if sorrowing over his regained
freedom.

The movement by itself was touching. Flora support-
ing him lightly imagined that he was crying; and at the
thought that had she smashed in a quarry that shoulder
together with some other of her bones, this gray and
pitiful head would have had nowhere to rest, she too gave
way to tears. They flowed quietly, easing her overstrained
nerves. Suddenly he pushed her away from him so that
her head struck the side of the cab, pushing himself away,
too, from her as if something had stung him.

All the warmth went out of her emotion. The very
last tears turned cold on her cheek. But their work was
done. She had found courage, resolution, as women do,
in a good cry. With his hand covering the upper part of his
face, whether to conceal his eyes or to shut out an unbearable
sight, he was stiffening up in his corner to his usual poker-
like consistency. She regarded him in silence. His thin,
obstinate lips moved. He uttered the name of the cousin.

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 386'

the man, you remember, who did not approve of the
Fynes, and whom rightly or wrongly little Fyne suspected
of interested motives, in view of de Barral having possibly
put away some plunder, somewhere before the smash.

I may just as well tell you at once that I don't know
anything more of him. But de Barral was of the opinion,
speaking in his low voice from under his hand, that this
relation would have been only too glad to have secured
his guidance.

"Of course I could not come forward in my own name,
or person. But the advice of a man of my experience
is as good as a fortune to anybody wishing to venture into
finance. The same sort of thing can be done again."

He shuffled his feet a little, let fall his hand; and turning
carefully toward his daughter his puffy round cheeks,
his round chin resting on his collar, he bent on her the
faded, resentful gaze of his pale eyes, which were wet.

"The start is really only a matter of judicious advertis-
ing. There's no difficulty. And here you go and . . . "

He turned his face away. "After all I am still de
Barral, the de Barral. Didn't you remember that?'*

"Papa," said Flora; "listen. It's you who must re-
member that there is no longer a de Barral. . . ."
He looked at her sideways anxiously. "There is Mr.
Smith, whom no harm, no trouble, no wicked lies of evil
people can ever touch."

"Mr. Smith," he breathed out slowly. "Where does
he belong to? There's not even a Miss Smith."

"There is your Flora."

"My Flora! You went and ... I can't bear to
think of it. It's horrible."

"Yes. It was horrible enough at times," she said with

386 CHANCE

feeling, because somehow, obscurely, what this man said
appealed to her as if it were her own thought clothed in an
enigmatic emotion. "I think with shame sometimes
how I ... No, not yet. I shall not tell you yet.
At least not now."

The cab turned into the gateway of the dock. Flora
handed the tall hat to her father. "Here, papa. And
please be good. I suppose you love me. If you don't,
then, I wonder who "

He put the hat on, and stiffened hard in his corner,
kept a sidelong glance on his girl. "Try to be nice for my
sake. Think of the years I have been waiting for you.
I do indeed want support and peace. A little peace.' 5

She clasped his arm suddenly with both hands, pressing
with all her might as if to crush the resistance she felt in
him. "I could not have peace if I did not have you with
me. I won't let you go. Not after all I went through.
I won't." The nervous force of her grip frightened him a
little. She laughed suddenly. "It's absurd. It's as
if I were asking you for a sacrifice. What am I afraid of?
Where could you go? I mean now, to-day, to-night?
You can't tell me. Have you thought of it? Well, I have
been thinking of it for the last year. Longer. I nearly
went mad trying to find out. I believe I was mad for a
time or else I should never have thought . . . "

This \vas as near as she came to a confession, re-
marked Marlow in a changed tone. The confession I
mean of that walk to the top of the quarry which she
reproached herself with so bitterly. And he made of it
what his fancy suggested. It could not possibly be a
just notion. The cab stopped alongside the ship and they

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 387

got out in the manner described by the sensitive Franklin.
I don't know if they suspected each other's sanity at the
end of that drive. But that is possible. We all seem a
little mad to each other; an excellent arrangement for
the bulk of humanity which finds in it an easy motive of
forgiveness. Flora crossed the quarter-deck with a
rapidity born of apprehension. It had grown unbearable.
She wanted this business over. She was thankful on
looking back to see he was following her. "If he bolts
away," she thought, "then I shall know that I am of no
account indeed! That no one loves me, that words and
actions and protestations and everything in the world is
false and I shall jump into the dock. That at least
won't lie."

Well, I don't know. If it had come to that she would
have been most likely fished out, what with her natural
want of luck and the good many people on the quay and
on board. And just where the Ferndale was moored
there hung on a wall (I know the berth), a coil of line, a
pole, and a life-buoy kept there on purpose to save people
who tumble into the dock. It's not so easy to get away
from life's betrayals as she thought. However it did not
come to that. He followed her wilh his quick, gliding
walk. Mr. Smith! The liberated convict, de Barral
passed off the solid earth for the bust time, vanished for-
ever, and there was Mr. Smith added to that world of
waters which harbours so many queer fishes. An old
gentleman in a silk hat, darling wary glances. Be
followed, because mere existence has its claims which
are obeyed mechanically. I have no doubt he presented
a respectable figure. Father-in-law. Nothing more re-
spectable. But he carried in his heart the confused pain

388 CHANCE

of dismay and affection, of voluntary repulsion and pity.
Very much like his daughter. Only in addition he felt
a furious jealousy of the man he was going to see.

A residue of egoism remains in every affection even
paternal. And this man in the seclusion of his prison
had thought himself into such a sense of ownership of that
single human being he had to think about, as may well be
inconceivable to us who have not had to serve a long (and
wickedly unjust) sentence of penal servitude. She was
positively the only thing, the one point where his thoughts
found a resting-place, for years. She was the only outlet
for his imagination. He had not much of that faculty, to
be sure, but there was in it the force of concentration.
He felt outraged, and perhaps it was an absurdity on his
part, but I venture Wsuggest rather in degree than in kind.
I have a notion that no usual, normal father is pleased at
parting with his daughter. No. Not even when he
rationally appreciates " Jane being taken off his hands" or
perhaps is able to exult at an excellent match. At bottom,
quite deep down, down in the dark (in some cases only by
digging), there is to be found a certain repugnance.

. . . With mothers of course it is different. Women
are more loyal, not to each other, but to their common
femininity, which they behold triumphant with a secret
and proud satisfaction. l

The circumstances of that match added to Mr. Smith's
indignation. And if he followed his daughter into that
ship's cabin it was as if into a house of disgrace and only
because he was still bewildered by the suddenness of the
thing. His will, so long lying fallow, was overborne by her
determination and by a vague fear of that regained liberty.

You will be glad to hear that Anthony, though he did

THE GREAT DE BARRAL

shirk the welcome on the quay, behaved admirably, with
the simplicity of a man who has no small meannesses and
makes no mean reservations. His eyes did not flinch and
his tongue did not falter. He was, I have it on the best
{Authority, admirable in his earnestness, in his sincerity, and
also in his restraint. He was perfect. Nevertheless, the
vital force of his unknown individuality addressing him so
familiarly was enough to fluster Mr. Smith. Flora saw
her father trembling in all his exiguous length, though he
held himself stiffer than ever if that was possible. He
muttered a little and at last managed to utter, not loud of
course but very distinctly: "I am here under protest,"
the corners of his mouth sunk disparagingly, his eyes
stony. "I am here under protest. I have been locked
up by a conspiracy. I "

He raised his hands to his forehead his silk hat was
on the table rim upward; he had put it there with a de-
spairing gesture as he came in he raised his hands to his

forehead. "It seems to me unfair. I " He broke

off again. Anthony looked at Flora, who stood by the side
of her father.

"Well, sir, you will soon get used to me. Surely you
and she must have had enough of shore-people and their
confounded half-and-half ways to last you both for a life-
time. A particularly merciful lot they are, too. You ask
Flora. I am alluding to my own sister, her best friend,
and not a bad woman either as they go."

The captain of the Ferndale checked himself. "Lucky
thing I was there to step in. I want you to make yourself
at home, and before long "

The faded stare of the great de Barral silenced Anthony
by its inexpressive fixity. He signalled with his eyes to

390 CHANCE

Flora toward the door of the stateroom fitted specially
to receive Mr. Smith, the free man. She seized the free
man's hat off the table and took him caressingly under the
arm. "Yes! This is home; come and see your room,
papa!"

Anthony himself threw open the door and Flora took
care to shut it carefully behind herself and her father.
"See," she began, but desisted because it was clear that he
would look at none of the contrivances for his comfort.
She herself had hardly seen them before. He was looking
only at the new carpet and she waited till he should raise
his eyes.

He didn't do that but spoke in his usual voice. "So
this is your husband, that . . . And I locked up !"

"Papa, what's the good of harping on that?" she remon-
strated no louder. "lie is kind."

"And you went and . . . married him so that he
should be kind to me. Is that it? How did you know
that I wanted anybody to be kind to rue? "

"How strange you are!" she said thoughtfully.

"It's hard for a man who has gone through what I have
gone through to feel like other people. Has that occured
to you? . . ." He looked up at last. . . . "Mrs.
Anthony. I can't bear the sight of the fellow." She met
his eyes without flinching and he added: "You want to go
to him now." His mild automatic manner seemed the
effect of tremendous self-restraint and yet she remem-
bered him always like that. She felt cold all over.

"Why, of course, I must go to him," she said with a
slight start.

He gnashed his teeth at her and she went out.

Anthony had not moved from the spot. One of his

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 391

hands was resting on the table. She went up to him,
stopped, then deliberately moved still closer. "Thank
you, Roderick."

"You needn't thank me," he murmured. "It's I
who ..."

"No, parhaps I needn't. You do what you like. But
you are doing it well."

He sighed then hardly above y. whisper because they
were near the stateroom door: "Upset, eh?"

She made no sign, no sound of any kind. The thorough
falseness of the position weighed on lliem both. But he
was the braver of the Iwo. "I daresay. At first. Did
you think of Idling him you were happy?"

"He never asked me," she smiled faintly at him. She
was disappointed by his quietness. "I did not say more
than I was absolutely obliged to say of myself." She
was beginning to be irritated with this man a little. "I
told him I had been very lucky," she said suddenly des-
pondent, missing Anthony's masterful manner, that some-
thing arbitrary and tender which, after the first scare, she
had accustomed herself to look forward to with pleasur-
able apprehension. He was contemplating her rather
blankly. She had not taken off her outdoor things, hat,
gloves. She was like a caller. And she had a movement
suggesting the end of a not very satisfactory business call.
"Perhaps it would be just as well if we went ashore.
Time yet."

He gave her a glimpse of his unconstrained self in the low
vehement "Y r ou dare!" which sprang to his lips and out
of them with a most menacing inflection.

"You dare . . . What's the matter now?"

These hist words were shot out, not at her but at some

392 CHAJNCE

target behind her back. Looking over her shoulder she
saw the bald head witli black bunches of hair of the con-
gested and devoted Franklin (he had his cap in his hand)
gazing sentimentally from the saloon doorway with his
lobster eyes. He was heard from the distance in a tone of
injured innocence reporting that the berthing master was
alongside and that he wanted to move the ship into the
basin before the crew came on board.

His captain growled, "Well, let him," and waved away
the ulcerated and pathetic soul behind these prominent
eyes which lingered on the offensive woman while the mate
backed out slowly. Anthony turned to Flora.

"You could not have meant it. You are as straight as
they make them."

"I am trying to be."

"Then don't joke in that way. Think of what would
become of me."

"Oh, yes. I forgot. No, I didn't mean it. It wasn't
a joke. It was forgetfulness. You wouldn't have been
wronged. I couldn't have gone. I I am too tired."

He saw she was swaying where she stood and restrained
himself violently from taking her into his arms, his frame
trembling with fear as though he had been tempted to an
act of unparalleled treachery. He stepped aside and
lowering his eyes pointed to the door of the stern-cabin,
It was only after she passed by him that he looked up and
thus he did not see the angry glance she gave him before
she moved on. He looked after her. She tottered slightly
just before reaching the door and flung it to behind her
nervously.

Anthony he had felt this crash as if the door had been
slimmed inside his very breast stood for a moment

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 393

without moving and then shouted for Mrs. Brown. This
was the steward's wife, his lucky inspiration to make Flora
comfortable. "Mrs. Brown! Mrs. Brown!" At last
she appeared from somewhere. "Mrs. Anthony has
come on board. Just gone into the cabin. Hadn't you
better see if you can be of any assistance? "

"Yes, sir."

And again he was alone with the situation he had
created in the hardihood and inexperience of his heart.
He thought he had better go on deck. In fact he ought
to have been there before. At any rate it would be the
usual thing for him to be on deck. But a sound of mutter-
ing and of faint thuds somewhere near by arrested his
attention. They proceeded from Mr. Smith's room, he
perceived. It was very extraordinary. "He's talking to
himself," he thought. "He seems to be thumping the
bulkhead with his fists or his head."

Anthony's eyes grew big with wonder while he listened
to these noises. He became so attentive that he did not
notice Mrs. Brown till she actually stopped before him for
a moment to say :

"Mrs. Anthony doesn't want any assistance, sir."

This was, you understand, the voyage before Mr. Powell
young Powell then joined the Ferndale; chance hav-
ing arranged that he should get his start in life in that par-
ticular ship of all the ships then in the Port of London.
The most unrestf ul ship that ever sailed out of any port on
earth. I am not alluding to her sea-going qualities. Mr.
Powell tells me she was as steady as a church. I mean
unrestful in the sense, for instance, in which this planet
of ours is unrestful a matter of an uneasy atmosphere

394 CHANCE

disturbed by passions, jealousies, loves, hates and the
troubles of transcendental good intentions, which, though
ethically valuable, I have no doubt cause often more un-
happiness than the plots of the most evil tendency. For
those who refuse to believe in chance he, I mean Mr.
Powell, must have been obviously predestined to add his
native ingenuousness to the sum of all the others carried by
the honest ship Ferndalc. He was too ingenuous. Every-
body on board was, exception being made of "Mr.
Smith, " who, however, was simple enough in his way, with
that terrible simplicity of the fixed idea, for which there is
also another name men pronounce with dread and aver-
sion. His fixed idea was to save his girl from the man
who had possessed himself of her (I use these words on
purpose because the image they suggest was clearly in Mr.
Smith's mind) possessed himself unfairly of her while
he, the father, was locked up.

"I won't rest till I have got you away from that man,"
he would murmur to her after long periods of contempla-
tion. We know from Powell how he used to sit on the
skylight near the long deck chair on which Flora was
reclining, gazing into her face from above with an air of
guardianship and investigation at the same time.

It is almost impossible to say if he ever had considered
the event rationally. The avatar of de Barral into Mr.
Smith had not been effected without a shock that much
one must recognize. It may be that it drove all practical
considerations out of his mind, making room for awful and
precise visions which nothing could dislodge afterward.
And it might have been the tenacity, the unintelligent
tenacity of the man who had persisted in throwing millions
of other people's thrift into the Lone Valley Railway, the

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 395

Labrador Docks, the Spotted Leopard Copper Mine, and
other grotesque speculations exposed during the famous
do Barral trial, amongst murmurs of astonishment mingled
with bursts of laughter. For it is in the Courts of Law
that Comedy finds its last refuge in our deadly serious
world. As to tears and lamentations, these were not
heard in the august precincts of comedy, because they were
indulged in privately in several thousand homes, where,
with a fine dramatic effect, Hunger had taken the place
of Thrift.

But there was one at least who did not laugh in court.
That person was the accused. The notorious de Barral
did not laugh, because he was indignant. He was im-
pervious to words, to facts, to inferences. It would
have been impossible to make him see his guilt or his
folly either by evidence or argument if anybody had
tried to argue.

Neither did his daughter Flora try to argue with him.
The cruelty of her position was so great, its complications
so thorny, if I may express myself so, that a passive
attitude was yet her best refuge as it had been before
her of so many women.

For that sort of inertia in woman is always enigmatic
and therefore menacing. It makes one pause. A woman
may be a fool, a sleepy fool, an agitated fool, a too aw y fully
noxious fool, and she may even be simply stupid. But
she is never dense. She's never made of wood through
and through as some men are. There is in woman always
somewhere a spring. Whatever men don't know about
women (and it may be a lot or it may be very little) men
and even fathers do know that much. And that is why
so many mep are afraid of them.

396 CHANCE

"Mr. Smith' 5 I believe was afraid of his daughter's
quietness though of course he interpreted it in his own way.

He would, as Mr. Powell depicts, sit on the skylight and
bend over the reclining girl, wondering what there was
behind the lost gaze, under the darkened eyelids, in the
still eyes. He would look and look and then he would say,
^ hisper rather, it didn't take much for his voice to drop
tD a mere breath he would declare, transferring his
faded stare to the horizon, that he would never rest till
he had "got her away from that man."

" You don't know what you are saying, papa."

She would try not to show her weariness, the nervous
strain of these two men's antagonism around her person
which was the cause of her languid attitudes. For as a
matter of fact the sea agreed with her.

As likely as not Anthony would be walking on the
other side of the deck. The strain was making him rest-
less. He couldn't sit still anywhere. He had tried
shutting himself up in his cabin; but that was no good.
He would jump up to rush on deck and tramp, tramp up
and down that poop till he felt ready to drop, without
being able to wear down the agitation of his soul, generous
indeed, but weighted by its envelope of blood and muscle
and bone; handicapped by the brain creating precise
images and everlastingly speculating, speculating look-
ing out for signs, watching for symptoms.

And Mr. Smith with a slight backward jerk of his small
head at the footsteps on the other side of the skylight
would insist in his awful, hopelessly gentle voice that he
knew very well what he was saying. Hadn't she given
herself to that man while he was locked up.

"Helpless, in jail, with no one to think of, nothing

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 397

to look forward to, but my daughter. And then when
they let me out at last I find her gone for it amounts to
this. Sold. Because you've sold yourself; you know
you have."

With his round, unmoved face, a lot of fine white hair
waving in the wind-eddies of the spanker, his glance
levelled over the sea, he seemed to be addressing the
universe across her reclining form. She would protest
sometimes.

"I wish you would not talk like this, papa. You are
only tormenting me, and tormenting yourself."

"Yes, I am tormented enough," he admitted meaningly.
But it was not talking about it that tormented him. It
was thinking of it. And to sit and look at it was worse
for him than it possibly could have been for her to go
and give herself up, bad as that must have been.

"For of course you suffered. Don't tell me you didn't?
You must have."

She had renounced very soon all attempts at protests.
It was useless. It might have made things worse; and
she did not want to quarrel with her father, the only
human being that really cared for her, absolutely, evidently,
complettly to the end. There was in him no pity,
no generosity, nothing whatever of these fine things it
was for her, for her very own self such as it was, that this
human being cared. This certitude would have made her
put up with worse torments. For, of course, she, too, was
being tormented. She felt also helpless, as if the whole
enterprise had been too much for her. This is the sort
of conviction which makes for quietude. She was be-
coming a fatalist.

What must have been rather appalling were the nece**

3f)3 CHANCE

jities of daily life, the intercourse of current trifles. That
naturally had to go on. They wished good morning to
each other, they sat down together to meals and I be-
Meve there would be a game of cards now and then in the
evening, especially at first. What frightened her most was
the duplicity of her father, at least what looked like
duplicity, when she remembered his persistent, insistent
whispers on deck. However, her father was a taciturn
person as far back as she could remember him best on
the Parade. It was she who chattered, never troubling
herself to discover whether he was pleased or displeased.
And now she couldn't fathom his thoughts. Neither did
she chatter to him. Anthony with a forced, friendly smile
as if frozen to his lips seemed only tup thankful at not be-
ing made to speak. Mr. Smith sometimes forgot
himself while studying his hand so long that Flora had to
recall him to himself by a murmured "Papa your lead.' 5
Then he apologized by a faint as if inward ejaculation.
"Beg your pardon, captain." Naturally she addressed
Anthony as Roderick and he addressed her as Flora.
This was all the acting that was necessary to judge from
the wincing twitch of the old man's mouth at every uttered
"Flora." On hearing the rare "Rodericks" he had some-
times a scornful grimace as faint and faded and colourless
as his whole stiff personality.

He would be the first to retire. He was not infirm.
With him, too, the life on board ship seemed to agree;
but from a sense of duty, of affection, or to placate his
hidden fury, his daughter always accompanied him to
his stateroom "to make him comfortable." She lighted
his lamp, helped him into his dressing-gown or got him ?
book from a bookcase fitted in there but this last rarely,.

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 399

because Mr. Smith used to declare, "I am no reader,"
with something like pride in his low tones. Very often
after kissing her good-night on the forehead he would
treat her to some such fretful remark: "It's like being
in jail 'pon my word. I suppose 'that man' is out
there waiting for you. Head jailer! Ough!"

She would smile vaguely; murmur a conciliatory
"How absurd." But once, out of patience, she said quite
sharply, " Leave off. It hurts me. One would think you
hate me."

"It isn't you I hate," he went on monotonously breath-
Ing at her. "No, it isn't you. But if I saw that you
loved that man I think I could hate you, too."

That word struck straight at her heart. "You wouldn't
be the first then," she muttered bitterly. But he was busy
with his fixed idea and uttered an awfully equable, "But
you don't ! Unfortunate girl ! "

She looked at him steadily for a time then said :

"Good-night, papa."

As a matter of fact Anthony very seldom waited for
her alone at the table with the scattered cards, glasses,
water-jug, bottles, and so on. He took no more opportu-
nities to be alone with her than was absolutely necessary for
tlie edification of Mrs. Brown. Excellent, faithful woman ;
the wife of his still more excellent and faithful steward.
And Flora wished all these excellent people, devoted to
Anthony, she wished them all further; and especially the
nice, pleasant-spoken Mrs. Brown with her beady, mobile
eyes and her "Yes, certainly, ma'am," which seemed to her
to have a mocking sound. And so this short trip to the
Western Islands only came to an end. It was so short
that when young Powell joined the Ferndale by a mem\4>

400 CHANCE

able stroke of chance, no more than seven months had
elapsed since the let us say the liberation of the convict
de Barral and his avatar into Mr. Smith.

For the time the ship was loading in London Anthony
took a cottage near a little country station in Essex, to
house Mr. Smith and Mr. Smith's daughter. It was
altogether his idea. How far it was necessary for Mr.
Smith to seek rural retreat I don't know. Perhaps to
some extent it was a judicious arrangement. There were
some obligations incumbent on the liberated de Barral
(in connection with reporting himself to the police I
imagine) which Mr. Smith was not anxious to perform,
de Barral had to vanish; the theory was that de Barral
had vanished, and it had to be upheld. Poor Flora liked
the country, even if the spot had nothing more to recom-
mend it than its retired character.

Now and then Captain Anthony ran down; but as the
station was a real wayside one, with no early morning
trains up, he could never stay for more than the afternoon.
It appeared that he must sleep in town so as to be early on
board his ship. The weather was magnificent and when-
ever the captain of the Ferndale was seen on a brilliant
afternoon coming down the road Mr. Smith would seize
his stick and toddle off for a solitary walk. But whether
he would get tired or because it gave him some satisfaction
to see "that man" go away or for some cunning reason
of his own, he was always back before the hour of Anthony's
departure. On approaching the cottage he would see
generally "that man" lying on the grass in the orchard
at some distance from his daughter seated in a chair
brought out of the cottage's living-room. Invariably Mr.

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 401

Smith made straight for them and as invariably had the
feeling that his approach was not disturbing a very inti-
mate conversation. He sat with them, through a silent
hour or so, and then it would be time for Anthony to go.
Mr. Smith, perhaps from discretion, would casually vanish
a minute or so before, and then watch through the diamond
panes of an upstairs room "that man" take a lingering
look outside the gate at the invisible Flora, lift his hat like
a caller, and go off down the road. Then only Mr. Smith
would join his daughter again.

These were the bad moments for her. Not always, of
course, but frequently. It was nothing extraordinary to
hear Mr. Smith begin gently with some observation like this :

"That man is getting tired of you."

He would never pronounce Anthony's name. It was
always "that man."

Generally she would remain mute with wide open eyes
gazing at nothing between the gnarled fruit trees. Once,
however, she got up and walked into the cottage. Mr.
Smith followed her carrying the chair. He banged it
down resolutely and in that smooth inexpressive tone so
many ears used to bend eagerly to catch when it came from
the great de Barral he saidt

"Let's get away."

She had the strength of mind not to spin round. On the
contrary she went on to a shabby bit of a mirror on the wall.
In the greenish glass her own face looked far off like the
white face of a drowned corpse at the bottom of a pool.
She faughed faintly.

"I tell you that man's getting "

"Papa," she interrupted him. "I have no illusions as
to myself. It has happened to me before, but "

'OS CHANCE

Her voice failing her suddenly her father struck in with
quite an unwonted animation. " Let's make a rush for
it, then."

Having mastered both her fright and her bitterness, she
turned round, sat down and allowed her astonishment
to be seen. Mr Smith sat down, too, his knees together
and bent at right angles, his thin legs parallel to each
other and his hands resting on the arms of the wooden
armchair. His hair had grown long, his head was sot stiffly,
there was something fatuously venerable in his aspect.

" You can't care for him. Don't tell me. I understand
your motive. And I have called you an unfortunate girl.
You are that as much as if you had gone on the streets.
Yes. Don't interrupt me, Flora. I was everlastingly
being interrupted at the trial and I can't stand it any
more. I won't be interrupted by my own child. And
when I think that it is on the very day before they let me
out that you ..."

He had wormed this fact out of her by that time because
Flora had got tired of evading the question. He had been
very much struck and distressed. Was that the trust
she had in him? Was that a proof of confidence and love?
The very day before! Never given him even half a
chance. It was as at the trial. They never gave him a
chance. They would not give him time. And there was
his own daughter acting exactly as his bitterest enemies
had done. Not giving him time!

The monotony of that subdued voice nearly lulled her
dismay to sleep. She listened to the unavoidable things
he was saying.

"But what induced that man to marry you? Of course
he's a gentleman. One can see that. And that makes

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 403

it worse. Gentlemen don't understand anything about
city affairs finance. Why ! the people who started
the cry after me were a firm of gentlemen. The counsel,
the judge all gentlemen quite out of it! No notion
of ... And then he's a sailor, too. Just a
skipper "

"My grandfather was nothing else," she interrupted.
And he made an angular gesture of impatience.

"Yes. But what does a silly sailor know of business?
Nothing. No conception. He could have had no idea of
what it means to be the daughter of Mr. de Barral even
after his enemies had smashed him. What on earth
induced him - "

She made a movement because the level voice was get-
ting on her nerves. And he paused, but only to go on
again in the same tone with the remark:

"Of course you are pretty. And that's why you are
lost like many other poor girls Unfortunate is the
word for you."

She said: "It may be. Perhaps it is the right word;
but listen, papa. I mean to be honest."

He began to exhale more speeches.

"Just the sort of man to get tired and then leave you
and go off w r ith his beastly ship. And anyway you can
never be happy with him. Look at his eyes. I want to
save you. You see I was not perhaps a very good husband
to your poor mother. She would have done better to
have left me long before she died. I have been thinking
it all over. I won't have you unhappy."

He ran his eyes over her with an attention which was
surprisingly noticeable. Then said, "H'm! Yes. Let's
clear out before it is too late. Quietly, you and I."

404 CHANCE

She said as if inspired and with that calmness which
despair often gives: "There is no money to go away with,
papa."

He rose up, straightening himself as though he were a
Ringed figure. She said decisively :

"And of course you wouldn't think of deserting me,
papa?"

"Of course not," sounded his subdued tone. And he
left her, gliding away with his walk which Mr. Powell
described to me as being as level and wary as his voice.
He walked as if he were carrying a glass full of water on
his head.

Flora naturally said nothing to Anthony of that edifying
conversation. His generosity might have taken alarm at
it and she did not want to be left behind to manage her
father alone. And moreover she was too honest. She
would be honest at whatever cost. She would not be the
first to speak. Never. And the thought came into her
head: "I am indeed an unfortunate creature!"

It was by the merest coincidence that Anthony coming
for the afternoon two days later had a talk with Mr. Smith
in the orchard. Flora for some reason or other had left
them for a moment; and Anthony took that opportunity
to be frank with Mr. Smith. He said: "It seems to me,
sir, that you think Flora has not done very well for herself.
Well, as to that I can't say anything. All I want you to
know is that I have tried to do the right thing." And then
he explained that he had willed everything he was pos-
sessed of to her. "She didn't tell you, I suppose?"

Mr. Smith shook his head slightly. And Anthony,
trying to be friendly, was just saying that he proposed
to keep the ship away from home for at least two years*

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 405

"I think, sir, that from every point of view it would be
best," when Flora came back and the conversation, cut
short in that direction, languished and died. Later in the
evening, after Anthony had been gone for hours, on the
point of separating for the night, Mr. Smith remarked
suddenly to his daughter after a long period of brooding:

"A will is nothing. One tears it up. One makes
another." Then after reflecting for a minute he added
unemotionally :

"One tells lies about it."

Flora, patient, steeled against every hurt and every
disgust to the point of wondering at herself, said: "You
push your dislike of of Roderick too far, papa. You
have no regard for me. You hurt me."

He, as ever inexpressive to the point of terrifying her
sometimes by the contrast of his placidity and his words,
turned away from her a pair of faded eyes.

"I wonder how far your dislike goes," he began. "His
very name sticks in your throat. I've noticed it. It
hurts me. What do you think of that? You might
remember that you are not the only person that's hurt by
your folly, by your hastiness, by your recklessness." He
brought back his eyes to her face. "And the very day
before they were going to let me out." His feeble voice
failed him altogether, the narrow compressed lips only
trembling for a time before he added with that extra-
ordinary equanimity of tone, "I call it sinful."

Flora made no answer. She judged it simpler, kinder,
and certainly safer to let him talk himself out. This, Mr.
Smith, being naturally taciturn, never took very long to do.
And we must not imagine that this sort of thing went on all
the time. She had a few good days in that cottage.

406 CHANCE

The absence of Anthony was a relief and his visits were
pleasurable. She was quieter. He was quieter, too. She
was almost sorry when the time to join the ship arrived.
It was a moment of anguish, of excitement; they arrived
at the dock in the evening and Flora after "making
her father comfortable" according to established usage
lingered in the stateroom long enough to notice that he
was surprised. She caught his pale eyes observing her
quite stonily. Then she went out after a cheery good-
night.

Contrary to her hopes she found Anthony yet in the
saloon. Sitting in his arm-chair at the head of the table
he was picking up some business papers which he put
aastily in his breast pocket and got up. He asked her if
Iier day, travelling up to town and then doing some
shopping, had tired her. She shook her head. Then he
wanted to know in a half-jocular way how she felt about
going away, and for a long voyage this time.

"Does it matter how I feel?" she asked in a tone that
cast a gloom over his face. He answered with repressed
violence which she did not expect:

"No, it does not matter, because I cannot go without
you. I've told you. . . . You know it. You don't
think I could."

"I assure you I haven't the slightest wish to evade my
obligations," she said steadily, "even if I could. Even
if I dared, even if I had to die for it!"

He looked thunderstruck. They stood facing each
other at the end of the saloon. Anthony stuttered. "Oh,
no, You won't die. You don't mean it. You have
taken kindly to the sea."

She laughed, but she felt angry.

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 407

"No, I don't mean it. I tell you I don't mean to evade
my obligations. I shall live on ... feeling a little
crushed, nevertheless."

"Crushed!" he repeated. "What's crushing you?"

"Your magnanimity/' she said sharply. But her
voice was softened after a time. "Yet I don't know.
There is a perfection in it do you understand me L
Roderick? which makes it almost possible to bear."

He sighed, looked away, and remarked that it was
time to put out the lamp in the saloon. The permission
was only till ten o'clock.

"But you needn't mind that so much in your cabin.
Just see that the curtains of the ports are drawn close and
that's all. The steward might have forgotten to do it.
He lighted your reading lamp in there before he went
ashore for a last evening with his wife. I don't know
if it was wise to get rid of Mrs. Brown. You will have to
look after yourself, Flora."

He was quite anxious; but Flora as a matter of fact
congratulated herself on the absence of Mrs. Brown. No
sooner had she closed the door of her stateroom than she
murmured fervently, "Yes! Thank goodness, she is
gone." There would be no gentle knock, followed by her
appearance witli her equivocal stare and the intolerable:
"Can I do anything for you, nia'am?" which poor Flora
had learned to fear and hate more than any voice or anj
words on board that ship her only refuge from the
world which had no use for her, for her imperfections and
for her troubles.

Mrs. Brown had been very much vexed at her dismissal.
The Browns \vere a childless couple and the arrangement
hr.d suited them perfectly. Their resentment was very

408 CHANCE

bitter. Mrs. Brown had to remain ashore alone with heir
rage, but the steward was nursing his on board. Poor
Flora had no greater enemy, the aggrieved mate had no
greater sympathizer. And Mrs. Brown, with a woman's
quick power of observation and inference (the putting of
two and two together), had come to a certain conclusion
which she had imparted to her husband before leaving
the ship. The morose steward permitted himself once
to make an allusion to it in Powell's hearing. It was in
the officers' mess-room at the end of a meal while he
lingered after putting a fruit pie on the table. He and
the chief 'mate started a dialogue about the alarming
change in the captain, the sallow steward looking down
with a sinister frown, Franklin rolling upward his eyes,
sentimental in a red face. Young Powell had heard a
lot of that sort of thing by that time. It was growing
monotonous; it had always sounded to him a little
absurd. He struck in impatiently with the remark that
such lamentations over a man merely because he had
taken a wife seemed to him like lunacy.

Franklin muttered, "Depends on what the wife is up
to." The steward leaning against the bulkhead near the
door glowered at Powell, that newcomer, that ignoramus,
that stranger without right or privileges. He snarled:

" Wife ! Call her a wife, do you? "

"What the devil do you mean by this?" exclaimed
young Powell.

"I know what I know. My old woman has not been
six months on board for nothing. You had better ask
her when we get back."

And meeting sullenly the withering stare of Mr. Powell,
the steward retreated backward.

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 409

Our young friend turned at once upon the mate. "And
you let that confounded bottle-washer talk like this be-
fore you, Mr. Franklin. Well, I am astonished."

" Oh, it isn't what you think. It isn't what you think."
Mr. Franklin looked more apoplectic than ever. "If it
comes to that I could astonish you. But it's no use.
I myself can hardly . . . You couldn't understand.
I hope you won't try to make mischief. There was a time,
young fellow, when I would have dared any man any
man, you hear? to make mischief between me and
Captain Anthony. But not now. Not now. There's a
change! Not in me though . . . "

Young Powell rejected with indignation any suggestion
of making mischief. "Who do you take me for?" he
cried. "Only you had better tell that steward to be
careful what he says before me or I'll spoil his good looks
for him for a month and will leave him to explain the
why of it to the captain the best way he can."

This speech established Powell in a way as a champion
of Mrs. Anthony. Nothing more bearing on the question
was ever said before him. He did not care for the steward's
black looks; Franklin, never conversational even at the
best of times, and avoiding now the only topic near his
heart, addressed him only on matters of duty. And for
that, too, Powell cared very little. The woes of the
apoplectic mate had begun to bore him long before. Yet
he felt lonely a bit at times. Therefore the little inter-
course with Mrs. Anthony either in one dog-watch or
the other was something to be looked forward to. The
captain did not mind it. That was evident from his
manner. One night he inquired (they were then alone
o? the poop) what they had been talking about tint

410 CHANCE

evening? Powell had to confess that it was about the
ship. Mrs. Anthony had been asking him questions.

"Takes interest eh?" jerked out the captain, moving
rapidly up and down the weather side of the poop.

"Yes, sir. Mrs. Anthony seems to get hold wonderfully
of what one's telling her."

"Sailor's granddaughter. One of the old school. Old
sea-dog of the best kind, I believe," ejaculated the captain,
swinging past his motionless second officer and leaving
the words behind him like a trail of sparks succeeded
by a perfect conversational darkness, because, for the
next two hours, till he left the deck, he didn't open his
lips again.

On another occasion ... we mustn't forget that
the ship had crossed the line and was adding up south
latitude every day by then . . . on an other occasion,
about seven in the evening, Powell on duty, heard his name
uttered softly in the companion. The captain was on the
stairs, thin-faced, his eyes sunk, on his arm a Shetland
wool wrap.

"Mr. Powell here."

"Yes, sir."

"Give this to Mrs. Anthony. Evenings are getting
chilly."

And the haggard face sank out of sight. Mrs. Anthony
was surprised on seeing the shawl.

"The captain wants you to put this on," explained
young Powell, and as she raised herself on her seat he
dropped it on her shoulders. She wrapped herself up
closely.

"Where was the captain?" she asked.

"He wa* in the companion. Called me on purpose,"

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 411

said Powell, and then retreated discreetly, because she
looked as though she didn't want to talk any more thai
evening. Mr. Smith the old gentleman was as usual
sitting on the skylight near her head, brooding over the
long chair but by no means inimical, as far as his unreadable
face went, to those conversations of the two youngest
people on board. In fact they seemed to give him some
pleasure. Now and then he would raise his faded china
eyes to the animated face of Mr. Powell thoughtfully.
When the young sailor was by, the old man became less
rigid, and when his daughter, on rare occasions, smiled at
some artless tale of Mr. Powell, the inexpressive face of
Mr. Smith reflected dimly that flash of evanescent
mirth. For Mr. Powell had come now to entertain his
captain's wife with anecdotes from the not very distant
past when he was a boy, on board various ships funny
things do happen on board ship. Flora was quite sur-
prised at times to find herself amused. She was even
heard to laugh twice in the course of a month. It was not
a loud sound but it was startling enough at the after-end of
the Ferndale, where low tones or silence were the rule.
The second time this happened the captain himself must
have been startled somewhere down below; because he
emerged from the depths of his unobstrusive existence and
began his tramping on the opposite side of the poop.

Almost immediately he called his young second officer
over to him. This was not done in displeasure. The
glance he fastened on Mr. Powell conveyed a sort of
approving wonder. He engaged him in desultory con-
versation as if for the only purpose of keeping a man who
could provoke such a sound near his person. Mr. Powell
felt himself liked. He felt it. Liked by that haggard,

412 CHANCE

restless man who threw at him disconnected phrases, to
which his answers were, "Yes, sir," "No, sir," "Oh
certainly," "I suppose so, sir," and might have been
clearly anything else for all the other cared.

It was then, Mr. Powell told me, that he discovered
in himself an already old-established liking for Captain
Anthony. He also felt sorry for him without being able
to discover the origins of that sympathy of which he had
become so suddenly aware.

Meantime "Mr. Smith," bending forward stiffly al
though he had a hinged back, was speaking to his daughter.

She was a child no longer. He wanted to know if she
believed in in hell. In eternal punishment?

His peculiar voice, as if filtered through cotton-wool,
was inaudible on the other side of the deck. Poor Flora,
taken very much unawares, made an inarticulate murmur,
shook her head vaguely, and glanced in the direction of
the pacing Anthony, who was not looking her way. It
was no use glancing in that direction. Of young Powell,
leaning against the mizzen-raast and facing his captain,
she could see only the shoulder and part of a blue serge
back.

And the un worried, unaccented voice of her father
went on tormenting her.

"You see, you must understand. When I came out
of gaol it was with joy. That is, my soul was fairly torn in
two but anyway to see you happy I'd made up my
mind to that. Once I could be sure that you were happy,
then of course I would have had no reason to care for
life strictly speaking which is all right for an old man
though naturally ... no reason to wish for death
either. But this sort of life! What sense, what meaning,

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 413

what value has it either for you or for me? It's just sit-
ting down to look at the death that's coming, coining.
What else is it? I don't know how you can put up with
that. I don't think you can stand it for long. Some day
you will jump overboard."

Captain Anthony had stopped for a moment staring
ahead from the break of the poop, and poor Flora sent at
his back a look of despairing appeal which would have
moved a heart of stone. But as though she had done
nothing, he did not stir in the least. She got out of the
long chair and went toward the companion. Her father
followed carrying a few small objects, a handbag, her
handkerchief, a book. They went down together.

It was only then that Captain Anthony turned, looked
at the place they had vacated, and resumed his tramping,
but not his desultory conversation with his second officer.
His nervous exasperation had grown so much that now
very often he used to lose control of his voice. If he did
not watch himself it would suddenly die in his throat.
He had to make sure before he ventured on the simplest
saying, an order, a remark on the wind, a simple good-
morning. That's why his utterance was abrupt, his
ansVers to people startlingly brusque and often not
forthcoming at all.

It happens to the most resolute of men to find himself at
grips not only with unknown forces, but with a well-known
force the real might of which he had not understood.
Anthony had discovered that he was not the proud master
but the chafing captive of his generosity. It rose in front
of him like a wall which his respect for himself forbade him
to scale. He said to himself: "Yes, I was a fool but
^he has trusted me!" Trusted! A terrible word to any

414 CHANCE

man somewhat exceptional in a world in which success has
never been found in renunciation and good faith. And it
must also be said, in order not to make Anthony more
stupidly sublime than he was, that the behaviour of Flora
kept him at a distance. The girl was afraid to add to the
exasperation of her father. It was her unhappy lot to be
made more wretched by the only affection which she could
riot suspect. She could not be angry with it, however,
and out of deference for that exaggerated sentiment she
hardly dared to look otherwise than by stealth at the man
whose masterful compassion had carried her off. And
quite unable to understand the extent of Anthony's
delicacy, she said to herself that "he didn't care." He
probably was beginning at bottom to detest her like the
governess, like the maiden lady, like the German woman,
like Mrs. Fyne, like Mr. Fyne only he was extraordi-
nary, he was generous. At the same time she had moments
of irritation. He was violent, headstrong perhaps
stupid. Well, he had had his way.

A man who has had his way is seldom happy, for gener-
ally he finds that the way does not lead very far on this
earth of desires which can never be fully satisfied.
Anthony had entered with extreme precipitation the
enchanted gardens of Armida, saying to himself "At last ! "
As to Armida, herself, he was not going to offer her any
violence. But now he had discovered that all the enchant-
ment was in Armida herself, in Armida's smiles. This
Armida did not smile. She existed, unapproachable,
behind the blank wall of his renunciation. His force, fit
for action, experienced the impatience, the indignation,
almost the despair, of his vitality arrested, bound, stilled,
progressively worn down, frittered away by Time! by that

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 415

force blind and insensible which seems inert and yet uses
one's life up by its imperceptible action, dropping minute
after minute on one's living heart like drops of water wear-
ing down a stone.

- He upbraided himself. What else could he have ex-
pected? He had rushed in like a ruffian; he had dragged
the poor defenceless thing by the hair of her head, as it
were, on board that ship. It was really atrocious.
Nothing assured him that his person could be attractive
to this or any other woman. And his proceedings were
enough in themselves to make any one odious. He must
have been bereft of his senses. She must fatally detest
and fear him. Nothing could make up for such brutality.
And yet somehow he resented this very attitude which
seemed to him completely justifiable. Surely he was not
too monstrous (morally) to be looked at frankly sometimes.
But no! She wouldn't. Well, perhaps, some day . . .
Only he was not going ever to attempt to beg for forgive-
ness. With the repulsion she felt for his person she would
certainly misunderstand the most guarded words, the
most careful advances. Never! Never!

It would occur to Anthony at the end of such medita-
tions that death was not an unfriendly visitor after all.
No wonder then that even young Powell, his faculties
having been put on the alert, began to think that there
was something unusual about the man who had given
him his chance in life. Yes, decidedly, his captain was
"strange." There was something wrong somewhere, he
said to himself, never guessing that his young and candid
eyes were in the presence of a passion profound, tyrannical
and mortal, discovering its own existence, astounded at feel-
ing itself helpless, and dismayed at finding itself incuiable.

416 CHANCE

Powell had never before felt this mysterious uneasiness
so strongly as on that evening when it had been his good
fortune to make Mrs. Anthony laugh a little by his artless
prattle. Standing out of the way, he had watched his
captain walk the weather-side of the poop, he took full
cognizance of his liking for that inexplicably strange man
and saw him swerve toward the companion and go down
below with sympathetic if utterly uncomprehending
eyes.

Shortly afterward, Mr. Smith came up alone and mani-
fested a desire for a little conversation. He, too, if not so
mysterious as the captain, was not very comprehensible
to Mr. Powell's uninformed candour. He often favoured
thus the second officer. His talk alluded somewhat
enigmatically and often without visible connection to Mr.
Powell's friendliness toward himself and his daughter.
''For I am well aware that we have no friends on board
this ship, my dear young man," he would add, "except
yourself. Flora feels that, too."

And Mr. Powell, flattered and embarrassed, could but
emit a vague murmur of protest. For the statement was
true in a sense, though the fact was in itself insignificant.
The feelings of the ship's company could not possibly
matter to the captain's wife and to Mr. Smith her
father. Why the latter should so often allude to it was
what surprised our Mr. Powell. This was by no means
the first occasion. More like the twentieth rather. And
in his weak voice, with his monotonous intonation, leaning
over the rail and looking at the water, the other continued
this conversation, or raiher his remarks, remarks of such a
monstrous nature that Mr. Powell had no option but to
accept them for gruesome iesting.

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 41?

"For instance/' said Mr. Smith, "that mate, Franklin,
I believe he would just as soon see us both overboard as
not."

"It's not so bad as that," laughed Mr. Powell, feeling
uncomfortable, because his mind did not accommodate
itself easily to exaggeration of statement. "He isn't a
bad chap really," he added, very conscious of Mr.
Franklin's offensive manner of which instances were not
far to seek. "He's such a fool as to be jealous. He has
been with the captain for years. It's not for me to say,
perhaps, but I think the captain has spoiled all that gang
of old servants. They are like a lot of pet old dogs.
Wouldn't let anybody come near him if they could help it.
I've never seen anything like it. And the second mate, I
believe, was like that, too."

"Well, lie isn't here, luckily. There would have been
one more enemy," said Mr. Smith. "There's enough of
them without him. And you being here instead of him
makes it much more pleasant for my daughter and myself.
One feels there may be a friend in need. For really, for
a woman all alone on board ship amongst a lot of un-
friendly men ..."

"But Mrs. Anthony is not alone," exclaimed Powell.
"There's you, and there's the . . ."

Mr. Smith interrupted him.

"Nobody's immortal. And there are times when one
feels ashamed to live. Such an evening as this, for in-
stance."

It was a lovely evening: the colours of a splendid sunset
had died out and the breath of a warm breeze seemed to
have smoothed out the sea. Away to the south the sheet
lightning was like the flashing of an enormous lantern

418 CHANCE

hidden under the horizon. In order to change the conver*
sation Mr. Powell said:

"Anyway no one can charge you with being a Jonah,
Mr. Smith. We have had a magnificent, quick passage so
far. The captain ought to be pleased. And I suppose
you are not sorry either."

This diversion was not successful. Mr. Smith emitted
a sort of bitter chuckle and said: "Jonah! That's the
fellow that was thrown overboard by some sailors. It
seems to me it's very easy at sea to get rid of a person
one does not like. The sea does not give up its dead as
the earth does."

"You forget the whale, sir," said young Powell.

Mr Smith gave a start. "Eh? What whale? Oh!
Jonah. I wasn't thinking of Jonah. I was thinking of
this passage which seems so quick to you. But only
think what it is to me? It isn't a life going about the
sea like this. And, for instance, if one were to fall ill,
there isn't a doctor to find out what's the matter with
one. It's worrying. It makes me anxious at times."

"Is Mrs. Anthony not feeling well?" asked Powell.
But Mr. Smith's remark was not meant for Mrs. Anthony.
She was well. He himself was well. It was the captain's
health that did not seem quite satisfactory. Had Mr.
Powell noticed his appearance?

Mr. Powell didn't know enough of the captain to judge.
He couldn't tell. But he observed thoughtfully that Mr.
Franklin had been saying the same thing. And Franklin
had known the captain for years. The mate was quite
worried about it.

This intelligence startled Mr. Smith considerably.
"Does he think he is in danger of dying?" he exclaimed

THE GREAT DE BARRAL 419

with an animation quite extraordinary for him, which
horrified Mr. Powell.

' * Heavens ! Die ! No ! Don't you alarm yourself, sir.
I've never heard a word about danger from Mr. Franklin."

"Well, well," sighed Mr. Smith, and left the poop for
the saloon rather abruptly.

As a matter of fact Mr. Franklin had been on deck for
some considerable time. He had come to relieve young
Powell; but seeing him engaged in talk with the "enemy"
with one of the "enemies" at least had kept at a
distance, which, the poop of the Ferndale being over
seventy feet long, he had no difficulty in doing. Mr.
Powell saw him at the head of the ladder leaning on his
elbow, melancholy and silent. " Oh ! Here you are, sir."

"Here I am. Here I've been ever since six o'clock.
Didn't want to interrupt the pleasant conversation. If
you like to put in half of your watch below jawing with
a dear friend, that's not my affair. Funny taste though."

"He isn't a bad chap," said the impartial Powell.

The mate snorted angrily, tapping the deck with his
foot; then: "Isn't he? Well, give him my love when
you come together again for another nice long yarn."

"I say, Mr. Franklin, I wonder the captain don't take
offence at your manners."

"The captain? I wish to goodness he would start a row
with me. Then I should know at least I am somebody
on board. I'd welcome it, Mr. Powell. I'd rejoice. And
damn me I would talk back too till I roused him. He';*;
a shadow of himself. He walks about his ship like -i
ghost. He's fading away right before our eyes. But ;
course you don't see. You don't care a hang. "YTS'
should you ? %%

420 CHANCE

Mr. Powell did not wait for more. He went down on
the main deck. Without taking the mate's jeremiads
seriously he put them beside the words of Mr. Smith.
He had grown already attached to Captain Anthony.
There was something not only attractive but compelling
in the man. Only it is very difficult for youth to believe
in the menace of death. Not in the fact itself, but in
its proximity to a breathing, moving, talking, superior
human being, showing no sign of disease. And Mr.
Powell thought that this talk was all nonsense. But his
curiosity was awakened. There was something, and at
any time some circumstance might occur . . . No, he
would never find out. . . . There was nothing to find
out, most likely. Mr. Powell went to his room, where he
tried to read a book he had already read a good many
times. Presently a bell rang for the officers' supper.

CHAPTER SIX

o . A MOONLESS NIGHT, THICK WITH STARS
ABOVE, VERY DAKK ON THE WATER

IN THE mess-room Powell found Mr. Franklin hack-
ing at a piece of cold salt beef with a table knife.
The male, fiery in the face and rolling his eyes over
that task, explained that the carver belonging to the mess-
room could not be found. The steward, present also,
complained savagely of the cook. The fellow got things
into his galley and then lost them. Mr. Franklin tried
to pacify him with mournful firmness.

"There, there! That will do. . We who have been
all these years together in the ship have other things to
think about than quarrelling among ourselves/*

Mr. Powell thought with exasperation: "Here he
goes again," for ihis utterance had nothing cryptic for him.
The steward, having withdrawn morosely, he was not
surprised to hear the mute strike the usual note. That
morning the mizzen topsail tie had carried away (prob-
ably a defective link) and something like forty feet of
chain and wire-rope, mixed up with a few heavy iron
blocks, had crashed down from aloft on the poop with
a terrifying racket.

"Did you notice the captain then, Mr. Powell? Did
you notice? " Powell confessed frankly that he was too
scared himself when all that lot of gear came down on
deck to notice anything.

421

422 CHANCE

"The gin-block missed his head by an inch," went cm
the mate impressively. "I wasn't three feet from him.
And what did he do? Did he shout, or jump, or even
look aloft to see if the yard wasn't coming down too about
our ears in about a dozen pieces? It's a marvel it
didn't. No, he just stopped short no wonder; he must
have felt the wind of that iron gin-block on his face
looked down at it, there, lying close to his foot and
went on again. I believe he didn't even blink. It isn't
natural. The man is stupefied."

He sighed ridiculously, and Mr. Powell had suppressed a
grin, when the mate added as if he couldn't contain him-
self:

"He will be taking to drink next. Mark my word.
That's the next thing."

Mr. Powell was disgusted.

"You are so fond of the captain and yet you don't
seem to care what you say about him, I haveu't been
with him for seven years, but I know he isn't the sort of
man that takes to drink. And then why the devil
should he?"

"Why the devil, you ask. Devil eh? Well, no man
is safe from the devil and that's answer enough for
you," wheezed Mr. Franklin not unkindly. "There was
a time, a long time ago, when I nearly took to drink my-
self. What do you say to that?"

Mr. Powell expressed a polite incredulity. The thick,
congested mate seemed on the point of bursting with
despondency. "That was bad example though. I was
young and fell into dangerous company, made a fool of
myself yes, as true as you see me sitting here. Drank
to forget. Thought it a great dodge."

A MOONLESS NIGHT 423

Powell looked at the grotesque Franklin with awak-
ened interest and with that half -amused sympathy
with which we receive unprovoked confidences from
men with whom we have no sort of affinity. And at
the same time he began to look upon him more
seriously. Experience has its prestige. And the mate
continued :

"If it hadn't been for the old lady, I would have gone
to the devil. I remembered her in time. Nothing like
having an old lady to look after to steady a chap and
make him face tilings. But as bad luck would have it,
Captain Anthony has no mother living, not a blessed
soul belonging to him as far as I know. Oh, aye, I fancy
he said once something to me of a sifter. But ihe's
married. She don't need him. Yes. In the old days he
used to talk to me as if we had been brothers," exagger-
ated the mate sentimentally. " 'Franklin,' he would
say 'this ship is my nearest relation and she isn't likely
to turn against me. And I suppose you are the man I've
known the longest in the world.' That's how he used
to speak to rne. Can I turn my back on him? He has
turned his back on his ship; that's what it has corne
to. He has no one now but his old Franklin. But what's
a fellow to do to put things back as they were and should
be. Should be I say!"

His starting eyes had a terrible fixity. Mr. Powell's
irresistible thought, "he resembles a boiled lobster in
distress," was followed by annoyance. "Good Lord,"
he said, "y u don't mean to hint that Captain Anthony
has fallen into bad company. What is it you want to
save him from?"

"I do mean it," affirmed the mate, and the very ab-

424 CHANCE

surdity of the statement made it impressive because
it seemed so absolutely audacious.

"Well, you have a cheek," said young Powell, feeling
mentally helpless. "I have a notion the captain would
half kill you if he were to know how you carry on."

"And welcome," uttered the fervently devoted Frank-
lin. "I am willing, if he would only clear the ship after-
ward of that . . . You are but a youngster and you
may go and tell him what you like. Let him knock the
stuffing out of his old Franklin first and think it over
afterward. Anything to pull him together. But of
course you wouldn't. You are all right. Only you don't
know that things are sometimes different from what they
look. There are friendships that are no friendships,
and marriages that are no marriages. . . . Phoo!
Likely to be right wasn't it? Never a hint to me.
I go off on leave and when I come back, there it is all
over, settled! Not a word beforehand. No warning.
If only: 'What do you think of it, Franklin?' or any-
thing of the sort. And that's a man who hardly ever did
anything without asking my advice. Why ! He couldn't
take over a new coat from the tailor without . . .
first thing, directly the fellow came on board with some
new clothes, whether in London or in China, it would
be: 'Pass the word along there for Mr. Franklin. Mr.
Franklin wanted in the cabin.' In I would go. 'Just
look at my back, Franklin. Fits all right, doesn't it?'
And I would say: 'First rate, sir,' or whatever was the
truth of it. That or anything else. Always the truth
of it. Always. And well he knew it; and that's why
he dared not speak right out. Talking about workmen,
alterations, cabin* . . . Phoo! . . . instead of a

A MOONLESS NIGHT 425

straightforward 'Wish me joy, Mr. Franklin !' Yes,
that was the way to let me know. God only knows
what they are perhaps she isn't his daughter any
more than she is ... She doesn't resemble that old
fellow. Not a bit. Not a bit. It's very awful. You
may well open your mouth, young man. But for good-
ness sake, you who are mixed up with that lot, keep your
eyes and ears open too in case in case of ... I don't
know what. Anything. One wonders what can happen
here at sea! Nothing. Yet when a man is called a
jailer behind his back."

Mr. Franklin hid his face in his hands for a moment
and Powell shut his mouth, which indeed had been open.
He slipped out of the mess-room noiselessly. "The
mate's crazy," he thought. It was his firm conviction.
Nevertheless, that evening he felt his inner tranquillity
disturbed at last by the force and obstinacy of this craze.
He couldn't dismiss it with the contempt it deserved.
Had the word "jailer" really been pronounced? A
strange word for the mate to even imagine he had heard.
A senseless, unlikely word. But this word being the only
clear and definite statement in these grotesque and dismal
ravings was comparatively restful to his mind. Pow-
ell's mind rested on it still when he came up at eight
o'clock to take charge of the deck. It was a moonless
night, thick with stars above, very dark on the water. A
steady air from the west kept the sails asleep. Franklin
mustered both watches in low tones as if for a funeral,
then approaching Powell:

"The course is east-south-east," said the chief mate
distinctly.

"East-south-east, sir,"

426 CHANCE

"Everything's set, Mr. Powell."

"All right, sir."

The other lingered, his sentimental eyes gleamed sil-
very in the shadowy face. "A quiet night before us.
I don't know that there are any special orders. A set-
tled, quiet night. I daresay you won't see the captain.
Once upon a time this was the watch he used to come up
and start a chat with either of us then on deck. But
now he site in that infernal stern-cabin and mopeso
Jailer eh?"

Mr. Powell walked away from the mate and when at
some distance said, "Damn!" quite heartily. It was a
confounded nuisance. It had ceased to be funny; that
hostile word "jailer 9 ' had given the situation an air of
reality.

Franklin's grotesque mortal envelope had disappeared
from the poop to seek its needful repose, if only the worried
soul would let it rest a while. Mr. Powell, half sorry for
the thick little man, wondered whether it would let him.
For himself, he recognized that the charm of a quiet watch
on deck when one may let one's thoughts roam in space
and time had been spoiled without remedy. What
shocked him most was the implied aspersion of com-
plicity on Mrs. Anthony It angered him. In his own
words to me, he felt very "enthusiastic" about Mrs.
Anthony. "Enthusiastic" is good; especially as he
couldn't exactly explain to me what he meant by it. But
he felt enthusiastic, he says. That silly Franklin must
have been dreaming. That was it. He had dreamed
it all. Ass! Yet the injurious word stuck in Powell's
mind with its associated ideas of prisoner, of escape. He

A MOONLESS NIGHT 427

became very uncomfortable. And just then (it might
have been half an hour or more since he had relieved
Franklin) just then Mr. Smith came up on the poop
alone, like a gliding shadow and leaned over the rail
by his side. Young Powell was affected disagreeably
by his presence He made a movement to go away
but the other began to talk and Powell remained
where he was as if retained by a mysterious compulsion.
The conversation started by Mr. Smith had nothing
peculiar. He began to talk of mail-boats in general and
in the end seemed anxious to discover what were the
services from Port Elizabeth to London. Mr. Powell
did not know for certain but imagined that there must
be communication with England at least twice a month.
"Are you thinking of leaving us, sir; of going home
by steam? Perhaps with Mrs, Anthony?" he asked
anxiously.

"No! No! How can I?" Mr. Smith got quite
agitated, for him, which did not amount to much. He
was just asking for the sake of something to talk about.
No idea at all of going home. One could not always
do what one wanted and that's why there were moments
when one felt ashamed to live. This did not mean that
one did not want to live. Oh, no!

He spoke with careless slowness, pausing frequently
and in such a low voice that Powell had to strain his
hearing to catch the phrases dropped overboard as it
were. And indeed they seemed not worth the effort. It
was like the aimless talk of a man pursuing a secret train
of thought far removed from the idle words we so often
utter only to keep in touch with our fellow beings. An
hour passed. It seemed as though Mr. Smith could not

428 CHANCE

make up his mind to go below. He repeated himself.
Again he spoke of lives which one was ashamed of. It was
necessary to put up with such lives as long as there was
no way out, no possible issue. He even alluded once
more to mail-boat services on the east coast of Africa
and young Powell had to tell him once more that he
knew nothing about them.

" Every fortnight, I thought you said," insisted Mr.
Smith. He stirred, seemed to detach himself from the
rail with difficulty. His long, slender figure straight-
ened into stiffness, as if hostile to the enveloping soft
peace of air and sea and sky, emitted into the night a
weak murmur which Mr. Powell fancied was the word,
"Abominable," repeated three times, but which passed
into the faintly louder declaration: "The moment has
come to go to bed," followed by a just audible sigh.

"I sleep very well," added Mr. Smith in his restrained
tone. "But it is the moment one opens one's eyes that
is horrible at sea. These days! Oh, these days! I
wonder how anybody can ... "

"I like the life," observed Mr. Powell.

"Oh, you. You have only yourself to think of. You
have made your bed. Well, it's very pleasant to feel that
you are friendly with us. My daughter has taken quite
a liking to you, Mr. Powell."

He murmured, "Good- night" and glided away rigidly.
Young Powell asked himself with some distaste what was
the meaning of these utterances* His mind had been
worried at last into that questioning attitude by no
other person than the grotesque Franklin. Suspicion was
not natural to him. And he took good care to carefully
separate in his thoughts Mrs. Anthony from this man of

A MOONLESS NIGHT 429

enigmatic words her father. Presently he observed
that the sheen of the two deck dead-lights of Mr. Smith's
room had gone out. The old gentleman had been sur-
prisingly quick in getting into bed. Shortly afterward
the lamp in the foremost skylight of the saloon was
turned out; and this was the sign that the steward had
taken in the tray and had retired for the night.

Young Powell had settled down to the regular officer-of-
the- watch tramp in the dense shadow of the world dec-
orated with stars high above his head, and on earth only
a few gleams of light about the ship. The lamp in the
after skyligtit was kept burning through the night. There
were also the dead-lights of the stem-cabins glimmering,
dully in the deck far aft, catching his eyes when he turned
to walk that way. The brasses of the wheel glittered,
too, with the dimly lit figure of the man detached, as if
phosphorescent, against the black and spangled back-
ground of the horizon.

Young Powell, in the silence of the ship, reinforced
by the great silent stillness of the world, said to himself
that there was something mysterious in such beings as the
absurd Franklin, and even in such beings as himself. It
was a strange and almost improper thought to occur to
the officer of the watch of a ship on the high seas on no
matter how quiet a night. Why on earth was he bother-
ing his head? Why couldn't he dismiss all these people
from his mind? It was as if the mate had infected him
with his own diseased devotion. He would not have
believed it possible that he should be so foolish. But he
was clearly. He was foolish in a way totally unforeseen
by himself. Pushing this self-analysis further, he re-
flected that the springs of his conduct were just as obscure.

430 CHANCE

"I may be catching myself any time doing things of
which I have no conception," he thought. And as he was
passing near the mizzen-mast he perceived a coil of rope
left lying on the deck by the oversight of the sweepers.
By an impulse which had nothing mysterious in it, he
stooped as he went by with the intention of picking it up
and hanging it up on its proper pin. This movement
brought his head down to the level of the glazed end of the
after skylight the lighted skylight of the most private
part of the saloon, consecrated to the exclusiveness of
Captain Anthony's married life; the part, let me remind
you, cut off from the rest of that forbidden space by a pair
of heavy curtains. I mention these curtains because
at this point Mr. Powell himself recalled the existence of
that unusual arrangement to my mind.

He recalled them with simple-minded compunction at
that distance of time. He said: "You understand that
directly I stooped to pick up that coil of running gear
the spanker foot-outhaul, it was I perceived that
I could see right into that part of the saloon the curtains
were meant to make particularly private. Do you under-
stand me?" he insisted.

I told him that I understood; and he proceeded to
call my attention to the wonderful linking up of small facts
with something of awe left yeU after all these years, at
the precise workmanship of chance, fate, providence, call
it what you will! "For, observe, Marlow," he said,
making at me very round eyes which contrasted funnily
with the austere touch of gray on his temples, * 'observe,
my dear fellow, that everything depended on the men
who cleared up the poop in the evening leaving that coil
of rope on the deck, and on the topsail-tie carrying away

A MOONLESS NIGHT 431

In a most incomprehensible and surprising manner earlier
in the day, and the end of the chain whipping round the
coaming and shivering to bits the coloured glass-pane at
the end of the skylight. It had the arms of the city of
Liverpool on it; I don't know why unless because
the Ferndale was registered in Liverpool. It was very thick
plate glass. Anyhow, the upper part got smashed, and
directly we had attended to things aloft, Mr. Franklin had
set the carpenter to patch up the damage with some
pieces of plain glass. I don't know where they got them;
I think the people who fitted up new bookcases in the
captain's room had left some spare panes. Chips was
there the whole afternoon on his knees, messing with
putty and red-lead. It wasn't a neat job when it was
done, not by any means, but it would serve to keep the
weather out and let the light in. Clear glass. And of
course I was not thinking of it. I just stooped to pick up
that rope and found my head within three inches of that
clear glass, and dash it all ! I found myself out. Not
half an hour before I was saying to myself that it was
impossible to tell what was in people's heads or at the
back of their talk, or what they were likely to be up to.
And here I found myself up to as low a trick as you can
well think of. For, after I had stooped, there I remained
prying, spying, anyway looking, where I had no business
to look. Not consciously at first, maybe. He who
has eyes, you know nothing can stop him from seeing
things as long as there are things to see in front of him.
What I saw at first was the end of the table and the tray
clamped on to it, a patent tray for sea use, fitted with
holders for a couple of decanters, water-jug, and glasses.
The glitter of these things caught my eye first; but wnat

432 CHANCE

I saw next was the captain down there, alone as far as I
could see; and I could see pretty well the whole of that
part up to the cottage piano, dark against the satinwood
panelling of the bulkhead. And I remained looking,
I did. And I don't know that I was ashamed of myself
either, then. It was the fault of that Franklin, always
talking of the man, making free with him to that extent
that really he seemed to have become our property,
his and mine, in a way. It's funny, but one had that
feeling about Captain Anthony. To watch him was not
so much worse than listening to Franklin talking him
over. Well,, it's no use making excuses for what's inex-
cusable. I watched; but I daresay you know that there
could have been nothing inimical in this low behav-
iour of mine. On the contrary. I'll tell you now what
he was doing. lie was helping himself out of a decanter.
I saw every movement, and I said to myself mockingly,
as though jeering at Franklin in my thoughts, 'Hallo!
Here's the captain taking to drink at last.' He poured
a little brandy or whatever it was into a long glass, filled
it with water, drank about a fourth of it and stood the
glass back into the holder. Every sign of a bad drinking
bout, I was saying to myself, feeling quite amused at
the notions of that Franklin. He seemed to me an
enormous ass, with his jealousy and his fears. At that
rate a month would not have been enough for anybody
to get drunk. The captain sat down in one of the swivel
armchairs fixed around the table; I had him right under
me and as he turned the chair slightly, I was looking, I
may say, down his back. He took another little sip and
then reached for a book which was lying on the table. I
had not noticed it before. Altogether the proceedings

A MOONLESS NIGHT 433

of a desperate drunkard weren't they? He opened
the book and held it before his face. If this was the way
he took to drink, then I needn't worry. He was in na
danger from that, and as to any other, I assure you n<r
human being could have looked safer than he did down
there. I felt the greatest contempt for Franklin just then,
while I looked at Captain Anthony sitting there with a
glass of weak brandy and water at his elbow and reading
in the cabin of his ship, on a quiet night the quietest,
perhaps the finest, of a prosperous passage. And if you
wonder why I didn't leave off my ugly spying I will tell
you how it was. Captain Anthony was a great reader
just about that time; and I, too, I have a great liking
for books. To this day I can't come near a book but I
must know what it is about. It was a thickish volume
he had there, small, close print, double columns I can
see it now. What I wanted to make out was the title
at the top of the page. I have very good eyes, but he
wasn't holding it conveniently I mean for me up there.
Well, it was a history of some kind, that much I read, and
then suddenly he bangs the book face down on the table,
jumps up as if something had bitten him, and walks away
aft.

"Funny thing shame is. I had been behaving badly
and aware of it in a way, but I didn't feel really ashamed
till the fright of being found out in my honourable occupa-
tion drove me from it. I slunk away to the forward end
of the poop and lounged about there, my face and ears
burning, and glad it was a dark night, expecting every
moment to hear the captain's footsteps behind me. For
I made sure he was coining on deck. Presently I thought
I had rather meet him face to face, and I walked slowly

434 CHANCE

aft prepared to see him emerge from the companion be-
fore I got that far. I even thought of his having detected
me by some means. But it was impossible, unless he
had eyes in the top of his head. I had never had a view
of his face down there. It was impossible; I was safe;
and I felt very mean, yet, explain it as you may, I seemed
not to care. And the captain not appearing on deck,
I had the impulse to go on being mean. I wanted an-
other peep. I really don't know what was the beastly
influence except that Mr. Franklin's talk was enough to
demoralize any man by raising a sort of unhealthy
curiosity which did away in my case with all the restraints
of common decency.

"I did not mean to run the risk of being caught squat-
ting in a suspicious attitude by the captain. There was
also the helmsman to consider. So what I did I am
surprised at my low cunning was to sit down naturally
on the skylight seat and then by bending forward I found
that, as I expected, I could look down through the upper
part of the end-pane. The worst that could happen to
me then, if I remained too long in that position, was to
be suspected by the seaman aft at the wheel of having
gone to sleep there. For the rest, my ears would give ine
sufficient warning of any movements in the companion.

"But in that way my angle of view was changed. The
field, too, was smaller. The end of the table, the tray,
and the swivel-chair I had right under my eyes. The
captain had not come back yet. The piano I could not
see now; but on the other hand I had a very oblique,
downward view of the curtains drawn across the cabin
and cutting off the forward part of it just about the level
of the skylight-end and only an inch or so from the end

A MOONLESS NIGHT 435

of the table. They were heavy stuff, travelling on a thick
brass rod with some contrivance to keep the rings from
sliding to and fro when the ship rolled. But just then
the ship was as still almost as a model shut up in a glass
case, while the curtains, joined closely, and, perhaps on
purpose, made a little too long, moved no more than a
solid wall."

Mar low got up to get another cigar. The night was
getting on to what I may call its deepest hour, the hour
most favourable to evil purposes of men's hate, despair or
greed to whatever can whisper into their ears the
unlawful counsels of protest against things that are, the
hour of ill-omened silence and chill and stagnation, the
hour when the criminal plies his trade and the victim
of sleeplessness reaches the lowest depth of dreadful dis-
couragement, the hour before the first sight of dawn. I
know it, because while Marlow was crossing the room I
looked at the clock on the mantlepiece. He, however,
never looked that way, though it is possible that he, too,
was aware of the passage of time. He sat down heavily.

Our friend Powell, he began again, was very anx-
ious that I should understand the topography of that
cabin. I was interested more by its moral atmosphere,
that tension of falsehood, of desperate acting, which
tainted the pure sea-atmosphere into which the magnani-
mous Anthony had carried off his conquest and well
his self -conquest, too, trying to act the same time like
a beast of prey, a pure spirit and the "most generous of
men." Too big an order clearly because he was nothing
of a monster but just a common mortal, a little more
self-willed and self-confident than most, maybe, both in
his roughness and in his delicacy.

436 , CHANCE

As to the delicacy of Mr. Powell's proceedings, I'll say
nothing. He found a sort of depraved excitement in
watching an unconscious man and such an attractive
and mysterious man as Captain Anthony at that. He
wanted another peep at him. He surmised that the
captain must come back soon because of the glass two
thirds full and also of the book put down so brusquely.
God knows what sudden pang had made Anthony jump
up so. I am convinced he used reading as an opiate
against the pain of his magnanimity, which like all ab-
normal growths was gnawing at his healthy substance
with cruel persistence. Perhaps he had rushed into his
cabin simply to groan freely in absolute and delicate
secrecy. At any rate he tarried there. And young
Powell would have grown weary and compunctious at
last if it had not become manifest to him that he had
not been alone in the highly incorrect occupation of
watching the movements of Captain Anthony.

Powell explained to me that no sound did or perhaps
could reach him from the saloon. The first sign and
we must remember that he was using his eyes for all
they were worth was an unaccountable movement of
the curtain. It was wavy and very slight; just per-
ceptible in fact to the sharpened faculties of a secret
watcher; for it can't be denied that our wits are much
more alert when engaged in wrong-doing (in which one
mustn't be found out) than in a righteous occupation.

He became suspicious, with no one and nothing definite
in his mind. He was suspicious of the curtain itself and
observed it. It looked very innocent. Then just as he
was ready to put it down to a trick of imagination he
saw trembling movements where the two curtains joined.

A MOONLESS NIGHT 487

Yes! Somebody else besides himself had been watching
Captain Anthony. He owns artlessly that this roused
his indignation. It was really too much of a good thing.
In this state of intense antagonism he was startled to
observe tips of fingers fumbling with the dark stuff.
Then they grasped the edge of the further curtain and
hung on there, just fingers and knuckles and nothing
else. It made an abominable sight. He was looking
at it with unaccountable repulsion when a hand came
into view; a short, puffy, old, freckled hand projecting
into the lamplight, followed by a white wrist, an arm
in a gray coatsleeve up to the elbow, beyond the elbow*
extended tremblingly toward the tray. Its appearance
was weird and nauseous, fantastic and silly. But in-
stead of grabbing the bottle as Powell expected, this
hand, tremulous with senile eagerness, swerved to the
glass, rested on its edge for a moment (or so it looked
from above) and went back with a jerk. The gripping
fingers of the other hand vanished at the same time,
and young Powell staring at the motionless curtains
could indulge for a moment in the notion that he had been
dreaming.

But that notion did not last long, Powell, after re-
pressing his first impulse to spring for the companion
and hammer at the captain's door, took steps to have
himself relieved by the boatswain. He was in a state of
distraction as to his feelings and yet lucid as to his mind.
He remained on the skylight so as to keep his eye on the
tray.

Still the captain did not appear in the saloon. "If he
had/' said Mr. Powell, " I knew what to do. I would have
put my elbow through the pane instantly - crash."

438 , CHANCE

I asked him why?

"It was the quickest dodge for getting him away from
that tray/' he explained. "My throat was so dry that
I didn't know if I could shout loud enough. And this
was not a case for shouting, either."

The boatswain, sleepy and disgusted, arriving on the
poop found the second officer doubled up over the end of
the skylight in a pose which might have been that of
severe pain. And his voice was so changed that the
man, though naturally vexed at being turned out, made
no comment on the plea of sudden indisposition which
young Powell put forward.

The rapidity with which the sick man got off the poop
must have astonished the boatswain. But Powell, at the
moment he opened the door leading into the saloon from
the quarter-deck, had managed to control his agitation.
He entered swiftly but without noise and found himself in
the dark part of the saloon, the strong sheen of the lamp
on the other side of the curtains visible only above the
rod on which they ran. The door of Mr. Smith's cabin
was in that dark part. He passed by it assuring himself
by a quick side glance that it was imperfectly closed.
"Yes," he said to me. "The old man must have been
watching through the crack. Of that I am certain; but
it was not for me that he was watching and listening.
Horrible! Surely he must have been startled to hear
and see somebody he did not expect. He could not pos-
sibly guess why I was coming in, but I suppose he must
have been concerned." Concerned indeed! He must
have been thunderstruck, appalled.

Powell's only distinct aim was to remove the suspected
tumbler. He had no other plan, no other intention, no

A MOONLESS NIGHT 43d

other thought. Do away with it in some manner.
Snatch it up and run out with it.

You know that complete mastery of one fixed idea,
not a reasonable but an emotional mastery, a sort of con-
centrated exaltation. Under its empire men rush blindly
through fire and water and opposing violence, and noth-
ing can stop them unless, sometimes, a grain of sand.
For his blind purpose (and clearly the thought of Mrs.
Anthony was at the bottom of it) Mr. Powell had plenty
of time. What checked him at the crucial moment was
the familiar, harmless aspect of common things, the
steady light, the open book on the table, the solitude,
the peace, the homelike effect of the place. He held
the glass in his hand; all he had to do was to vanish back
beyond the curtains, flee witli it noiselessy into the night
on deck, fling it unseen overboard. A minute or less.
And then all that would have happened would have
been the wonder at the utter disappearance of a glass
tumbler, a ridiculous riddle in pantry-affairs beyond the
wit of any one on board to solve. The grain of sand
against which Powell stumbled in his headlong career
was a moment of incredulity as to the truth of his own
conviction because it had failed to affect the safe aspect
of familiar things. He doubted his eyes, too. He must
have dreamt it all! "I am dreaming now," he said to
himself. And very likely for a few seconds he must have
looked like a man in a trance or profoundly asleep on his
feet, and with a glass of brandy and water in his hand.

What woke him up, and, at the same time, fixed his
feet immovably to the spot, was a voice asking him what
he was doing there in tones like thunder. Or so it
sounded to his ears. Anthony, opening the door of his

440 CHANCE

stern-cabin, bad naturally exclaimed. What else could
you expect? And the exclamation must have been
fairly loud if you consider the nature of the sight which
met his eye. There, before him, stood his second officer,
a seemingly decent, well-bred young man, who, being
on duty, had left the deck and had sneaked into the saloon,
apparently for the inexpressibly mean purpose of drinking
up what was left of his captain's brandy-and-water.
There he was, caught absolutely with the glass in his
hand.

But the very monstrosity of appearances silenced An-
thony after the first exclamation; and young Powell
felt himself pierced through and through by the over-
shadowed glance of his captain. Anthony advanced
quietly. The first impulse of Mr. Powell, when discov-
ered, had been to dash the glass on the deck. He was
in a sort of panic. But deep down within him his wits
were working, and the idea that if he did that he could
prove nothing and that the story he had to tell was
completely incredible, restrained him. The captain
came forward slowly. With his eyes now close to his,
Powell, spellbound, numb all over, managed to lift one
finger to the deck above, mumbling the explanatory
words, "Boatswain on deck."

The captain moved his head slightly as much as to
say, "That's all right" and this was all. Powell had
no voice, no strength. The air was unbreathable, thick,
sticky, odious, like hot jelly in which all movements be-
came difficult. He raised the glass a little with immense
difficulty and moved his trammelled lips sufficiently to
form the words;

"Doctored."

A MOONLESS NIGHT 441

Anthony glanced at it for an instant, only for an instant,
and again fastened his eyes on the face of his second mate.
Powell added a fervent "I believe," and put the glass
down on the tray. The captain's glance followed the
movement and returned sternly to his face. The young
man pointed a finger once more upward and squeezed out
of his iron-bound throat six consecutive words of further,,
explanation. "Through the skylight. The white pane/ 1

The captain raised his eyebrows very much at this
while young Powell, ashamed but desperate, nodded
insistently several times. He meant to say that: Yes.
Yes. He had done that thing. He had been spyirg.
, . . The captain's gaze became thoughtful. And
now, the confession was over, the iron-bound feeling of
Powell's throat passed away, giving place to a genej al
anxiety which from his breast seemed to extend to nil
fhe limbs and organs of his body. His legs trembled a
little, his vision was confused, his mind became blankly
expectant. But he was alert enough. At a movement
of Anthony he screamed in a strangled whisper:

" Don't, sir! Don't touch it."

The captain pushed aside Powell's extended arm, took
up the glass and raised it slowly against the lamplight.
The liquid, of very pale amber colour, was clear, and by a
glance the captain seemed to call Powell's attention to
the fact. Powell tried to pronounce the word, "dis-
solved," but he only thought of it with great energy which,
however, failed to move his lips. Only when Anthony
had put down the glass and turned to him he recovered
such a complete command of his voice that he could keep
it down to a hurried, forcible whisper a whisper that
shook him.

442 CHANCE

"Doctored! I swear it! I have seen. Doctored*.
I have seen/'

Not a feature of the captain's face moved. His was a
calm to take one's breath away. It did so to young Pow-
ell. Then for the first time Anthony made himself heard
to the point.

"You did! . . .. Who was it?"

And Powell gasped freely at last. "A hand," he
whispered fearfully, "a hand and the arm only one
arm like that."

He advanced his own, slow, stealthy, tremulous in
faithful reproduction, the tips of two fingers and the
thumb pressed together and hovering above the glass
for an instant then the swift jerk back, after the deed.

"Like that," he repeated growing excited. "From
behind this." He grasped the curtain and glaring at the
silent Anthony flung it back disclosing the forepart of the
saloon. There was no one to be seen.

Powell had not expected to see anybody. "But," he
said to me, "I knew very well there was an ear listening
and an eye glued to the crack of a cabin door. Awful
thought. And that door was in that part of the saloon
remaining in the shadow of the other half of the curtain.
I pointed at it and I suppose that old man inside saw me
pointing. The captain had a wonderful self-command.
You couldn't have guessed anything from his face. Well,
it was perhaps more thoughtful than usual. And indeed
this was something to think about. But I couldn't think
steadily. My brain would give a sort of jerk and then
go dead again. I had lost all notion of time, and I might
have been looking at the captain for days and months for
all I knew before I heard him whisper to me fiercely:

A MOONLESS NIGHT 443

'Not a word!' This jerked me out of the trance I was
in and I said 'No! No! I didn't mean even you.'

"I wanted to explain my conduct, my intentions, but
I read in his eyes that he understood me and I was only
too glad to leave off. And there we were looking at each
other, dumb, brought up short by the question, 'Whatnext?'

"I thought Captain Anthony was a man of iron till
I saw him suddenly fling his head to the right and to the
left fiercely, like a wild animal at bay not knowing which
way to break out. . . ."

Truly, commented Marlow, brought to bay was not
a bad comparison; a better one than Mr. Powell was
aware of. At that moment the appearance of Flora could
not but bring the tension to the breaking point. She
came out in all innocence but not without vague dread.
Anthony's exclamation on first seeing Powell had reached
her in her cabin, where, it seems, she was brushing her
hair. She had heard the very words. 'What are you
doing here? ' And the unwonted loudness of the voice
his voice breaking the habitual stillness of that hour
would have startled a person having much less reason
to be constantly apprehensive than the captive of
Anthony's masterful generosity. She had no means to
guess to whom the question was addressed and it echoed
in her heart, as Anthony's voice always did. Followed
complete silence. She waited, anxious, expectant, till
she could stand the strain no longer, and with the weary
mental appeal of the overburdened, 'My God! What
is it now?' she opened the door of her room and looked
into the saloon. Her first glance fell on Powell. For
a moment, seeing only the second officer with Anthony,

444 CHANCE

she felt relieved and made as if to draw back; but har
sharpened perception detected something suspicious in
their attitudes, and she came forward slowly.

"I was the first to see Mrs. Anthony," related Powell,
"because I was facing aft. The captain, noticing my
eyes, looked quickly over his shoulder and at once put
his finger to his lips to caution me. As if I were likely to
let out anything before her! Mrs. Anthony had on a
dressing-gown of some gray stuff with red facings and a
thick red cord round her waist. Her hair was down. She
looked a child; a pale-faced child, with big blue eyes and
a red mouth a little open, showing a glimmer of white
teeth. ' The light fell strongly on her as she came up to the
end of the table. A strange child though; she hardly
affected one like a child, I remember. Do you know,"
exclaimed Mr. Powell, who clearly must have been, like
many seaman, an industrious reader, "do you know
what she looked like to me with those big eyes and some-
thing appealing in her whole expression. She looked
like a forsaken elf. Captain Anthony had moved to-
ward her to keep her away from my end of the table,
where the tray was. I had never seen them so near to
each other before, and it made a great contrast. It
was wonderful, for, with his beard cut to a point, his
swarthy, sunburnt complexion, thin nose, and his lean
head there was something African, something Moorish
in Captain Anthony. His neck was bare; he had taken
off his coat and collar and had drawn on his sleeping
jacket in the time that he had been absent from the
saloon. I seem to see him now. Mrs. Anthony, too. She
looked from him to me I suppose I looked guilty
or frightened and from me to him, trying to guess whet

A MOONLESS NIGHT 445

there was between us two. Then she burst out with a
4 What has happened? 5 which seemed addressed to me.
I mumbled, "Nothing! Nothing, ma'am/ which she very
likely did not hear.

"You must not think that all this had lasted a long
time. She had taken fright at our behaviour and turned
to the captain pitifully. 'What is it you are concealing
from me?' A straight question eh? I don't know
what answer the captain would have made. Before he
could even raise his eyes she cried out, 'Ah! Here's
papa!' in a sharp tone of relief, but directly afterward
she looked to me as if she were holding her breath with
apprehension. I was so interested in her that, how shall
I say it, her exclamation made no connection in my brain
at first. I also noticed that she had sidled up a little
nearer to Captain Anthony, before it occurred to me to
turn my head. I can tell you my neck stiffened in the
twisted position from the shock of actually seeing that old
man! He had dared! I suppose you think I ought to
have looked upon him as mad. But I couldn't. It
would have been certainly easier. But I could not. You
should have seen him. First of all he was completely
dressed with his very cap still on his head just as when he
left me on deck two hours before, saying in his soft voice:
*The moment has come to go to bed' while he
meant to go and do that thing and hide in his dark cabin,
and watch the stuff do its work. A cold shudder ran
down my back. He had his hands in the pockets of his
jacket, his arms were pressed close to his thin, upright
body, and he shuffled across the cabin with his short
steps. There was a red patch on each of his old soft
cheeks as if somebody had been pinching them. He

446 CHANCE

drooped his head a little, and looked with a sort of under-
hand expectation at the captain and Mrs. Anthony
standing close together at the other end of the saloon.
The calculating horrible impudence of it! His daughter
was there; and I am certain he had seen the captain
putting his finger to his lips to warn me. And then he
had coolly come out! He passed my imagination, I as-
sure you. After that one quiver his presence killed
every faculty in me wonder, horror, indignation. I
felt nothing in particular, just as if he were still the old
gentleman who used to talk to me familiarly every day on
deck. Would you believe it?"

Mr. Powell challenged my powers of wonder at this
internal phenomenon, went on Marlow after a slight
pause. But even if they had not been fully engaged,
together with all my powers of attention in following the
facts of the case, I would not have been astonished by his
statements about himself. Taking into consideration
his youth they were by no means incredible; or, at any
rate, they were the least incredible part of the whole.
They were also the least interesting part. The interest
was elsewhere, and there of course all he could do was
to look at the surface. The inwardness of what was
passing before his eyes was hidden from him, who held
looked on, more impenetrably than from me who at a
distance of years was listening to his words. What
presently happened at this crisis in Flora de Barrel's fate
was beyond his power to comment, seemed in a sense
natural. And his own presence on the scene was so
strangely motived that it was left for me to marvel alone
at this young man, a completely chance-comer, having
brought it about on that night.

A MOONLESS NIGHT /447/

Each situation created either by folly or wisdom has
its psychological moment. The behaviour of young
Powell with its mixture of boyish impulses, combined
with instinctive prudence, had not created it I can't
say that but had discovered it to the very people in-
volved. What would have happened if he had made a
noise about his discovery? But he didn't. His head
was full of Mrs. Anthony and he behaved with a dis-
cretion beyond his years. Some nice children often do;
and surely it is not from reflection. They have their
own inspirations. Young Powell's inspiration consisted
in being "enthusiastic" about Mrs. Anthony. "Enthu-
siastic" is really good. And he was amongst them like
a child, sensitive, impressionable, plastic but unable
to find for himself any sort of comment.

I don't know how much mine may be worth; but I
believe that just then the tension of the false situation
was nt its highest. Of all the forms offered to us by
life it is the one demanding a couple to realize it fully
which is the most imperative. Pairing off is the fate of
mankind. And if two beings thrown together, mutually
attracted, resist the necessity, fail in understanding and
voluntarily stop short of the the embrace, in the noblest
meaning of the word, then they are committing a sin
against life, the call of which is simple. Perhaps sacred.
And the punishment of it is an invasion of complexity,
a tormenting, forcibly tortuous involution of feelings,
the deepest form of suffering from which indeed something
significant may come at last, which may be criminal or
heroic, may be madness or wisdom or even a straight
if despairing decision.

Powell on taking his eyes off the old gentlemap noticed

448 CHANCE

Captain Anthony, swarthy as an African, by the side of
Flora, whiter than the lilies, take his handkerchief out
snd wipe off his forehead the sweat of anguish like a
man who is overcome, "And no wonder," commented
Mr. Powell here. Then the captain said, "Hadn't you
better go back to your room." This was to Mrs. An-
thony. He tried to smile at her. "Why do you look
startled? This night is like any other night."

"Which," Powell again commented to me earnestly,
"was a lie. . . . No wonder he sweated." You sec
from this the value of Powell's comments. Mrs. Anthony
then said: "Why are you sending me away?"

"Why! That you should go to sleep. That you
should rest." And Captain Anthony frowned. Then
sharply," You stay here, Mr. Powell. I shall want you
presently."

As a matter of fact Powell had not moved. Flora
did not mind his presence. He himself had the feeling
of being of no account to those three people. He was
looking at Mrs. Anthony as unabashed as the proverbial
cat looking at a king. Mrs. Anthony glanced at him.
She did not move, gripped by an inexplicable premoni-
tion. She had arrived at the very limit of her endurance
as the object of Anthony's magnanimity; she was the
prey of an intuitive dread of she did not know what
mysterious influence; she felt herself being pushed
back into that solitude, that moral loneliness, which had
made all her life intolerable. And then, in that close
communion established again with Anthony, she felt
as on that night in the garden the force of his personal
fascination. The passive quietness with which she looked
at him gave her the appearance of a person bewitched

A MOONLESS NIGHT 44

or, say, mesmerically put to sleep beyond any notion
of her surroundings.

After telling Mr. Powell not to go away the captain
remained silent. Suddenly Mrs. Anthony pushed back
her loose hair with a decisive gesture of her arms and
moved still nearer to him. "Here's papa up yet," she
said, but she did not look toward Mr. Smith. "Why
is it? And you? I can't go on like this, Roderick
between you two. Don't."

Anthony interrupted her as if something had untied his
tongue. "Oh, yes. Here's your father. And , . .
Why not. Perhaps it is just as well you came out. Be-
tween us two? Is that it? I won't pretend I don't under-
stand. I am not blind. But I can't fight any longer for
what I haven't got. I don't know what you imagine has
happened. Something has though. Only you needn't be
afraid. No shadow can touch you because I give up.
I can 't say we had much talk about it, your father and
I, but, the long and the short of it is, that I must learn
to live without you which I have told you was im-
possible. I was speaking the truth. But I have done
fighting, or waiting, or hoping. Yes. You shall go."

At this point Mr. Powell, who (he confessed to me) was
listening with uncomprehending awe, heard behind his
back a triumphant chuckling sound. It gave him the
shudders, he said, to mention it now; but at the time,
except for another chill down the spine, it had not the
power to destroy his absorption in the scene before his
eyes, and before his ears, too, because just then captain
Anthony raised his voice grimly. Perhaps he, too, had
heard the chuckle of the old man.

"Your father has found an argument which makes ine

450 CHANCE

pause, if it does not convince me. No! I can't answer
it. I I don't want to answer it. I simply surrender.
He shall have his way with you and with me. Only,"
he added in a gloomy lowered tone which struck Mr.
Powell as if a pedal had been put down, "only it shall
take a little time. I have never lied to you. Never.
I renounce not only my chance but my life. In a few
days, directly we get into port, the very moment we do,
I, who have said I could never let you go, I shall let you

go."

To the innocent beholder Anthony seemed at this point
to become physically exhausted. My view is that the
utter falseness of his, I may say, aspirations, the vanity
of grasping the empty air, had come to him with an over-
whelming force, leaving him disarmed before the other's
mad and sinister sincerity. As he had said himself
he could not fight for what he did not possess, he could
not face such a thing as this for the sake of his mere
magnanimity. The normal alone can overcome the
abnormal. He could not even reproach that man over
there. "I own myself beaten," he said in a firmer tone.
"You are free. I let you off since I must."

Powell, the onlooker, affirms that at these incompre-
hensible words Mrs. Anthony stiffened into the very
image of astonishment, with a frightened stare and
frozen lips. But next minute a cry came out from her
heart, not very loud but of a quality which made not
only Captain Anthony (he was not looking at her), not
only him but also the more distant (and equally unpre-
pared) young man, catch their breath: "But I don't
want to be let off," she cried.

She was so still that one asked one's self whether the

A MOONLESS NIGHT 451

cry had come from her. The restless shuffle behind
Powell's back stopped short, the intermittent shadowy
chuckling ceased, too. Young Powell, glancing round,
saw Mr. Smith raise his head with his faded eyes very
still, puckered at the corners, like a man perceiving some-
thing coming at him from a great distance. And Mrs.
Anthony's voice reached Powell's ears, entreating and
indignant.

"You can't cast me off like this, Roderick. I won't
go away from you. I won't "

Powell turned about and discovered then that what
Mr. Smith was puckering his eyes at was the sight of
his daughter clinging round Captain Anthony's neck a
sight not in itself improper, but which had the power to
move young Powell with a bashfully profound emotion.
It was different from his emotion while spying at the
revelations of the skylight, but in this case, too, he felt
the discomfort, if not the guilt, of an unseen beholder.
Experience was being piled up on his young shoulders.
Mrs. Anthony's hair hung back in a dark mass like the
hair of a drowned woman. She looked as if she would
let go and sink to the floor if the captain were to withhold
his sustaining arm. But the captain obviously had no
such intention. Standing firm and still he gazed with
sombre eyes at Mr. Smith. For a time the low, convulsive
sobbing of Mr. Smith's daughter was the only sound to
trouble the silence. The strength of Anthony's clasp
pressing Flora to his breast could not be doubted even
at that distance, and suddenly, awakening to his oppor-
tunity, he began to partly support her, partly carry her,
in the direction of her cabin. His head was bent over
her solicitously, then recollecting himself, with a glance

452 CHANCE

full of unwonted fire, his voice ringing in a note un-
known to Mr. Powell, he cried to him, "Don't you go
on deck yet. I want you to stay down here till I come
back. There are some instructions I want to give you/'

And before the young man could answer, Anthony had
disappeared in the stern cabin, burdened and exulting.

"Instructions," commented Mr. Powell. "That was
all right. Very likely, but they would be such instruc-
tions as, I thought to myself, no ship's officer perhaps had
ever been given before. It made me feel a little sick to
think what they would be dealing with, probably. But
there! Everything that happens on board ship on the
high seas has got to be dealt with somehow. There are
no special people to fly to for assistance. And there I
was with that old man left in my charge. When he
noticed me looking at him he started to shuffle again
athwart the saloon. He kept his hands rammed in his
pockets, he was as stiff-backed as ever, only his head
hung down. After a bit he says in his gentle soft tone:
'Did you see it?'"

There were in Powell's head no special words to fit the
horror of his feelings. So he said he had to say some-
thing, "Good God! What were you thinking of, Mr.
Smith, to try to ..." And then he left off. He
dared not utter the awful word poison. Mr. Smith
stopped his prowl.

"Think! What do you know of thinking. I don't
think. There is something in my head that thinks. The

thoughts in men, it's like being drunk with liquor or

You can't stop them. A man who thinks will think any-
thing. No! But have you seen it. Have you?"

"I tell you I have! I am certain!" said Powell forci-

A MOONLESS NIGHT 453

bly. "I was looking at you all the time. You've done
something to the drink in that glass/*

Then Powell lost his breath somehow. Mr. Smith
looked at him curiously, with mistrust.

"My good young man, I don't know what you are
talking about. I ask you have you seen? Who
would have believed it? with her arms round his neck.
Why? Oh! Ha! Ha! You did see! Didn't you?
It wasn't a delusion was it? Her arms round . . .
But I have never wholly trusted her/ 5

fc 'Then I burst out at him/' said Mr. Powell. "I told
him he was jolly lucky to have fallen upon Captain An-
thony. A man in a million. He started again shuffling
to and fro. 'You, too/ he said mournfully, keeping his
eyes down. 'Eh? Wonderful man? But have you a
notion who I am? Listen! I have been the great
Mr. de Barral. So they printed it in the papers
while they were getting up a conspiracy. And I have
been doing time. And now I am brought low/ His
voice died down to a mere breath. 'Brought low/

" He took his hands out of his pocket, dragged the cap
down on his head and stuck them back into his pockets,
exactly as if preparing himself to go out into a great
wind. 'But not so low as to put up with this disgrace,
to see her, fast in this fellow's clutches, without doing
something. She wouldn't listen to me. Frightened?
Silly? I had to think of some way to get her out of
this. Did you think she cared for him? No! Would
anybody have thought so? No! She pretended it was
for my sake. She couldn't understand that if I hadn't
been an old man I would have flown at his throat months
As it was I was tempted every time he *ooked at

454 CHANCE

her. My girl. Ough! Any man but this. And all
the time the wicked little fool was lying to me. It was
their plot, their conspiracy! These conspiracies are the
devil. She has been leading me on till she has fairly
put my 4iead under the heel of that jailer, of that scoundrel,
of her husband. . . . Treachery! Bringing me low.
Lower than herself. In the dirt. That's what it means,
Doesn't it? Under his heel!'"

He paused in his restless shuffle and seizing his cap with
both hands, dragged it furiously right down on his ears.
Powell had lost himself in listening to these broken rav-
ings, in looking at that old feverish face, when, suddenly,
quick as lightning, Mr. Smith spun round, snatched up
the captain's glass and with a stifled, hurried exclama-
tion, "Here's luck," tossed the liquor down his throat.

"I know now the meaning of the word 'Consterna-
tion/ "went on Mr. Powell. "That was exactly my
state of mind. I thought to myself directly: There's
nothing in that drink. I have been dreaming, I have
made the awfulest mistake! . . ."

Mr. Smith put the glass down. He stood before Pow-
ell unharmed, quieted down, in a listening attitude,
his head inclined on one side, chewing his thin lips.
Suddenly he blinked queerly, grabbed Powell's shoulder
and collapsed, subsiding all at once as though he had gone
soft all over, as a piece of silk stuff collapses. Powell
seized his arm instinctively and checked his fall; but as
soon as Mr. Smith was fairly on the floor he jerked him-
self free and backed away. Almost as quick he rushed
forward again and tried to lift up the body. But di-
rectly he raised his shoulders he knew that the man was
dead! Dead!

A MOONLESS NIGHT 455

He lowered him down gently. He stood over him
without fear or any other feeling, almost indifferent, far
away, as it were. And then he made another start and,
if he had not kept Mrs. Anthony always in his mind, he
would have let out a yell for help. He staggered to her
cabin door, and, as it was, his call for "Cap tain Anthony"
burst out from him much too loud; but he made a great
effort of self-control. "I am waiting for my orders, sir,"
he said outside that door distinctly, in a steady tone.

It was very still in there; still as death. Then he heard
a shuffle of feet and the captain's voice, "All right.
Coming." He leaned his back against the bulkhead as
you see a drunken man sometimes propped up against a
wall, half doubled up. In that attitude the captain
found him, when he came out, pulling the door to after
him quickly. At once Anthony let his eyes run all over
the cabin. Powell, without a word, clutched his forearm,
led him round the end of the table and began to justify
himself. "I couldn't stop him," he whispered shakily.
" He was too quick for me. He drank it up and fell down. "
But the captain was not listening. He was looking down
at Mr. Smith, thinking perhaps that it was a mere
chance his own body was not lying there. They did not
want to speak. They made signs to each other with
their eyes. The captain grasped Powell's shoulder as
if in a vise and glanced at Mrs. Anthony's cabin door,
and it was enough. He knew that the young man under-
stood him. Rather! Silence! Silence forever about
this. Their very glances became stealthy. Powell looked
from the body to the door of the dead man's stateroom.
The captain nodded and let him go; and then Powell
crept over, hooked the door open and crept back with

456 CHANCE

fearful glances toward Mrs. Anthony's cabin. They
stooped over the corpse. Captain Anthony lifted up the
shoulders.

Mr. Powell shuddered. "I'll never forget that inter-
minable journey across the saloon, step by step, holding
our breath. For part of the way the drawn half of the
curtain concealed us from view had Mrs. Anthony opened
her door; but I didn't draw a free breath till after we
laid the body down on the swinging cot. The reflection
of the saloon light left most of the cabin in the shadow.
Mr. Smith's rigid, extended body looked shadowy, too,
shadowy and alive. You know he always carried him-
self as stiff as a poker. We stood by the cot as though
waiting for him to make us a sign that he wanted to be
left alone. The captain threw his arm over my shoulder
and said in my very ear: 'The steward'll find him in
the morning.'

"I made no answer. It was for him to say. It was
perhaps the best way. It's no use talking about my
thoughts. They were not concerned with myself, nor
yet with that old man who terrified me more now than
when he was alive. Him whom I pitied was the captain.
He whispered: *I am certain of you, Mr. Powell. You
had better go on deck now. As to me . . . ' and
I saw him raise his hands to his head as if distracted.
But his last words before we stole out that cabin stick
to my mind with the very tone of his mutter to him-
self, not to me:

" 'No! No! I am not going to .stumble r.ow over that
corpse. 5 "

"This Is what our Mr. Powell had to tell me," sai<!
Marlow, changing his tone. " I was ;dad to learn that

A MOONLESS NIGHT 457

Flora de Barral had been saved from that sinister shadow
at least falling upon her path.

We sat silent then, my mind running on the end of De
Barral, on the irresistible pressure of imaginary griefs,
crushing conscience, scruples, prudence, under their ever-
expanding volume, on the sombre and venomous irony in
the obsession which had mastered that old man.

"Well," I said.

"The steward found him," Mr. Powell roused himself.
"He went in there with a cup of tea at five and, of course,
dropped it. I was on watch again. He reeled up to me
on deck pale as death. I had been expecting it; and yet
I could hardly speak. 'Go and tell the captain quietly/
I managed to say. He ran off muttering, *My God!
My God!' and I'm hanged if he didn't get hysterical
while trying to tell the captain, and start screaming in
the saloon, * Fully dressed! Dead! Fully dressed!'
Mrs. Anthony ran out of course, but she didn't get hys-
terical. Franklin, who was there, too, told me that she
hid her face on the captain's breast and then he went
out and left them there. It was days before Mrs. An-
thony was seen on deck. The first time I spoke to her
she gave me her hand, and said, 'My poor father was
quite fond of you, Mr. Powell/ She started wiping
her eyes and I fled to the other side of the deck. One
would like to forget all this had ever come near her."

But clearly he could not, because after lighting his pipe
he began musing aloud: "Very strong stuff it must have
been. I wonder where he got it. It could hardly be at a
common chemist's. Well, he had it from somewhere a
mere pinch it must have been, no more."

I have my theory, observed Marlow, which to a

458 CHANCE

certain extent does away with the added horror of a coldly
premeditated crime. Chance had stepped in there, too.
It was not Mr. Smith who obtained the poison. It
was the great de Barral. And it was not meant for the ob-
scure, magnanimous conqueror of Flora de Barral; it was
meant for the notorious financier whose enterprises had
nothing to do with magnanimity. He had his physician
in his days of greatness. I even seem to remember that
the man was called at the trial on some small point or
other. I can imagine that de Barral went to him when
he saw, as he could hardly help seeing, the possibility of a
"triumph of envious rivals" a heavy sentence.

I doubt if for love or even for money, but I think
possibly from pity, that man provided him with what
Mr. Powell called "strong stuff." Prom what Powell
saw of the very act I am fairly certain it must have been
contained in a capsule and that he had it about him on
the last day of his trial, perhaps secured by a stitch in
his waistcoat pocket. He didn't use it. Why? Did
he think of his child at the last moment? Was it want
of courage? We can't tell. But he found it in his
clothes when he came out of jail. It had escaped in-
vestigation if there was any. Chance had armed him.
And chance alone, the chance of Mr. Powell's life,
forced him to turn the abominable weapon against him-
self.

I imparted my theory to Mr. Powell, who accepted it
at once as, in a sense, favourable to the father of Mrs.
Anthony. Then he waved his hand. "Don't let us
think of it."

I acquiesced and very soon he observed dreamily:

"I was with Captain and Mrs. Anthony sailing all

A MOONLESS NIGHT 459

over the world for near on six years. Almost as long as
Franklin."

"Oh, yes! What about Franklin?" I asked.

Powell smiled. "He left the Ferndale a year or so
afterward, and I took his place. Captain Anthony
recommended him for a command. You don't think
Captain Anthony would chuck a man aside like an old
glove. But of course Mrs. Anthony did not like him
very much. I don't think she ever let out a whisper
against him, but Captain Anthony could read b*r
thoughts."

And again Powell seemed to lose himself in the past.
I asked, for suddenly the vision of the Fynes passed
through my mind:

"Any children?"

Powell gave a start. "No! No! Never had any
children," and again subsided, puffing at his short briar
pipe.

"Where are they now?" I inquired next as if anx-
ious to ascertain that all Fyne's fears had been misplaced
and vain as our fears often are; that there were no un-
desirable cousins for his dear girls, no danger of intrusion
on their spotless home. Powell looked round at me
slowly, his pipe smouldering in his hand,

"Don't you know?" he uttered in a deep voice.

"Know what?"

"That the Ferndale was lost this four years or more.
Sunk. Collision. And Captain Anthony went down with
her."

"You don't say so!" I cried quite affected as if I
had known Captain Anthony personally. "Was was
Mrs. Anthony lost, too?"

460 CHANCE

"You might as well ask if I was lost," Mr. Powell
rejoined so testily as to surprise me. " You see me here
don't you/'

He was quite huffy, but noticing my wondering stare,
lie smoothed his ruffled plumes. And in a musing tone:

"Yes. Good men go out as if there was no use for
them in the world. It seems as if there were things that,
as the Turks say, are written. Or else fate has a try
and sometimes misses its mark. You remember that
close shave we had of being run down at night, I told
you of, my first voyage with them. This go it was just
at dawn. A flat calm and a fog thick enough to slice
with a knife. Only there were no explosives on board.
I was on deck and I remember the cursed, murderous
thing looming up alongside and Captain Anthony
(we were both on deck) calling out, 'Good God!
What's this! Shout for all hands, Powell, to save
themselves. There's no dynamite on board now. I
am going to get the wife." I yelled, all the watch on
deck yelled. Crash! ..."

Mr. Powell gasped at the recollection. "It was a
Belgian Green Star liner, the Westland," he went on,
"commanded by one of those stop-for-nothing skippers.
Flaherty was his name and I hope he will die without
absolution. She cut half through the old Ferndale and
after the blow there was a silence like death. Next I
heard the captain back on deck shouting, 'Set your
engines slow ahead,' and a howl of 'Yes, yes,' answering
him from her forecastle; and then a whole crowd of
people up there began making a row in the fog. They
were throwing ropes down to us in dozens, I must say.
I and the captain fastened one of them under Mrs.

A MOONLESS NIGHT 461

Anthony's arms: I remember she had a sort of dim
smile on her face."

'"Haul up carefully/ I shouted to the people on the
steamer's deck. * You've got a woman on that line/

''The captain saw her landed up there safe. And then
we made a rush round our decks to see no one was left
behind. As we got back the captain says: 'Here she's
gone at last, Powell; the dear old thing! Run down
at sea.'

*" Indeed she is gone, 5 I said. 'But it might have
been worse. Shin up this rope, sir, for God's sake. I
will steady it for you.'

'"What are you thinking about?' he says angrily. 'It
isn't my turn. Up with you.'

" These were the last words he ever spoke on earth I
suppose. I knew he meant to be the last to leave his
ship, so I swarmed up as quick as I could, and those
damned lunatics up there grab at me from above, lug
me in, drag me along aft through the row and the riot of
the silliest excitement I ever did see. Somebody hails
from the bridge, 'Have you got them all on board?'
and a dozen silly asses start yelling all together, 'All
saved! All saved!' and then that accursed Irishman on
the bridge, with me roaring No! No! till I thought
my head would burst, rings his engines astern. He rings
the engines astern I fighting like mad to make myself
heard! And of course ...

I saw tears, a shower of them fall down Mr. Powell's
face. His voice broke.

"The Ferndale went down like a stone and Captain
Anthony went down with her, the finest man's soul tlia^
ever left a sailor's body. I raved like a maniac, like i

462 CHANCE

devil, with a lot of fools crowding round me and asking,
'Aren't you the captain?'

"I wasn't fit to tie the shoe-strings of the man you
have drowned," I screamed at them. . . . Well!
Well! I could see for myself that it was no good low-
ering a boat. You couldn't have seen her alongside.
No use. And only think, Marlow, it was I who had to
go and tell Mrs. Anthony. They had taken her down
below somewhere, first-class saloon. I had to go and
tell her! That Flaherty, God forgive him, comes to me
as white as a sheet, 'I think you are the proper person. 5
God forgive him. I wished to die a hundred times. A
lot of kind ladies, passengers, were chattering excitedly
around Mrs. Anthony a real parrot house. The ship's
doctor went before me. He whispers right and left and
then there falls a sudden hush. Yes, I wished myself
dead. But Mrs. Anthony was a brick."

Here Mr. Powell fairly burst into tears. "No one
could help loving Captain Anthony. I leave you to
imagine what he was to her. Yet before the week was out
it was she who was helping me to pull myself together."

"Is Mrs. Anthony in England now?" I asked after a
while.

He wiped his eyes without any false shame. " Oh , yes."
He began to look for matches and while diving for the box
under the table, added: "And not very far from here
either. That little village up there you know."

"No! Really! Oh, I see!"

Mr. Powell smoked austerely, very detached. But I
could not let him off like this. The sly beggar. So this
was the secret of his passion for sailing about the river,
the reason of his fondness for that creek.

A MOONLESS NIGHT 468

"And I suppose," I said," that you are still as 'enthu-
siastic* as ever. Eh? If I were you I would just men-
tion my enthusiasm to Mrs. Anthony. Why not?"

He caught his falling pipe neatly. But if what the
French call ejffarement was ever expressed on a human
countenance it was on this occasion, testifying to his
modesty, his sensibility, and his innocence. He looked
afraid of somebody overhearing my audacious almost
sacrilegious hint as if there had not been a mile and a
half of lonely marshland and dykes between us and the
nearest human habitation. And then perhaps he re-
membered the soothing fact, for he allowed a gleam to
light up his eyes, like the reflection of some inward fire
tended in the sanctuary of his heart by a devotion as
pure as that of any vestal.

It flashed and went out. He smiled a bashful smile,
sighed :

"Pah! Foolishness. You ought to know better," he
said, more sad than annoyed. "But I forgot that you
never knew Captain Anthony/' he said indulgently.

I reminded him that I knew Mrs. Anthony; even be-
fore he an old friend now had ever set eyes on her.
And as he told me that Mrs. Anthony had heard of our
meetings I wondered whether she would care to see me.
Mr. Powell volunteered no opinion then; but next time
we lay in the creek he said, "She will be very pleased.
You had better go to-day."

The afternoon was well advanced before I approached
the cottage. The amenity of a fine day in its decline
surrounded me with a beneficent, a calming influence;
I felt it in the silence of the shady lane, in the pure air, in
the blue sky. It is difficult to retain the memory of the

464 CHANCE

conflicts, miseries, temptations and crimes of men's self-
seeking existence when one is alone with the charming
serenity of the unconscious nature. Breathing the dream-
less peace around the picturesque cottage I was ap-
proaching } it seemed to me that it must reign everywhere,
over all the globe of water and land and in the hearts of all
the dwellers on this earth.

Flora came down to the garden gate to meet me, no
longer the perversely tempting, sorrowful wisp of white
mist drifting in the complicated bad dream of existence.
Neither did she look like a forsaken elf. I stammered
out stupidly, "Again in the country, Miss . . .

Mrs " She was very good, returned the pressure

of my hand, but we were slightly embarrassed. Then we
laughed a little. Then we became grave.

I am no lover of daybreaks. You know Low thin,
equivocal, is the light of the dawn. But she was now her
true self, she was like a fine tranquil afternoon and not
so very far advanced either. A woman not much over
thirty, with a dazzling complexion and a little colour, a
lot of hair, a smooth brow, a fine chin, and only the eyes
of the Flora of the old days absolutely unchanged.

In the room into which she led me we found a Miss
Somebody I didn't catch the name an unobtru-
sive, even an indistinct, middle-aged person in black. A
companion. All very proper. She came and went and
even sat down at times in the room, but a little apart,
with some sewing. By the time she had brought in a
lighted lamp I had heard all the details which really matter
in this story. Between me and her who was once Flora
de Barral the conversation was not likely to keep strictly
to the weather.

A MOONLESS NIGHT 465

The lamp had a rosy shade; and its glow wreathed
her in perpetual blushes, made her appear wonderfully
young as she sat before me in a deep, high-backed arm-
chair. I asked:

"Tell me what is it you said in that famous letter which
so upset Mrs. Fyne, and caused little Fyne to interfere in
this offensive manner?"

"It was simply crude," she said earnestly. "I was
feeling reckless and I wrote recklessly. I knew she would
disapprove and I wrote foolishly. It was the echo of her
own stupid talk. I said that I did not love her brother
but that I had no scruples whatever in marrying him.

She paused, hesitating, then with a shy half-laugh.

"I really believed I was selling myself, Mr. Marlow.
And I was proud of it. What I suffered afterward I
couldn't tell you; because I only discovered my love for
my poor Roderick through agonies of rage and humilia-
tion. I came to suspect him of despising me; but I could
not put it to the test because of my father. Oh! I
would not have been too proud. But I had to spare
poor papa's feelings. Roderick was perfect, but I felt
as though I were on the rack and not allowed even to cry
out. Papa's prejudice against Roderick was my great-
est grief, It was distracting. It frightened me. Oh!
I have been miserable! That night when my poor
father died suddenly I am certain they had some sort of
discussion about me. But I did not want to hold out
any longer against my own heart! I could not. 55

She stopped short, then impulsively:

"Truth will out, Mr. Marlow."

"Yes," I said.

Sh3 went on musingly.

466 CHANCE

" Sorrow and happiness were mingled at first like
darkness and light. For months I lived in a dusk of
feelings. But it was quiet. It was warm . , , "

Again she paused, then going back in her thoughts.
"No! There was no harm in that letter. It was simply
foolish. What did I know of life then? Nothing. But
Mrs. Fyne ought to have known better. She wrote a
letter to her brother, a little later. Years afterward
Roderick allowed me to glance at it. I found in it this
sentence: *For years I tried to make a friend of that
girl; but I warn you once more that she has the nature
of a heartless adventuress. . . / Adventuress!" re-
peated Flora slowly. "So be it. I have had a fine
adventure."

"It was fine, then/' I said interested.

"The finest in the world! Only think! I loved and
was loved, untroubled, at peace, without remorse,
without fear. All the world, all life were transformed
for me. And how much I have seen ! How good people
were to me! Roderick was so much liked everywhere."
Yes, I have known kindness and safety. The most
familiar things appeared lighted up with a new light,
clothed with a loveliness I had never suspected. The sea
itself! . . . You are a sailor. You have lived your life
on it. But do you know how beautiful it is, how strong,
how charming, how friendly, how mighty ..."

I listened amazed and touched. She was silent only
a little while.

"It was too good to last. But nothing can rob me
of it now. . . . Don't think that I repine. I am
not even sad now. Yes, I have been happy. But I re-
member also the time when I was unhappy beyond

A MOONLESS NIGHT 467

endurance, beyond desperation. Yes. You remember
that. And later on, too. There was a time on board
the Ferndale when the only moments of relief I knew
were when I made Mr. Powell talk to me a little on the
poop. You like him? Don't you?"

"Excellent fellow," I said warmly. "You see him
often?"

"Of course. I hardly know another soul in the world,
I am alone. And he has plenty of time on his hands
His aunt died a few years ago. He's doing nothing, I
believe."

"He is fond of the sea," I remarked. "He loves it.**

"He seems to have given it up,"she murmured.

"I wonder why?"

She remained silent. "Perhaps it is because he loves
something else better," I went on. "Come, Mrs. An-
thony, don't let me carry away from here the idea that
you are a selfish person, hugging the memory of your
past happiness, like a rich man his treasure, forgetting
the poor at the gate."

I rose to go, for it was getting late. She got up in
some agitation and went out with me into the fragrant
darkness of the garden. She detained my hand for a
moment and then in the very voice of the Flora of old
days, with the exact intonation, showing the old mistrust,
the old doubt of herself, the old scar of the blow received
in childhood, pathetic and funny, she murmured, "Do
you think it possible that he should care for me?"

"Just ask him yourself. You are brave."

"Oh, I am brave enough," she said with a sigh.

"Then do. For if you don't you will be wronging the
patient man cruelly,"

468 CHANCE

I departed leaving her dumb. Next day, seeing Pow-
ell making preparations to go ashore, I asked him to give
my regards to Mrs. Anthony. He promised he would.

"Listen, Powell," I said. "We got to know each other
by chance?"

"Oh, quite!" he admitted, adjusting his hat.

"And the science of life consists in seizing every chance
that presents itself," I pursued. "Do you believe that?"

"Gospel truth," he declared innocently.

"Well, don't forget it."

"Oh, I! I don't expect now anything to present
itself," he said, jumping ashore.

He didn't turn up at high water. I set my sail and
just as I had cast off from the bank, round the black barn
in the dusk, two figures appeared and stood silent, indistinct.

"Is that you, Powell?" I hailed

"And Mrs. Anthony," his voice came impressively
through the silence of the great marsh. "I am not
sailing to-night. I have to see Mrs. Anthony home."

"Then I must even go alone," I cried.

Flora's voice wished me "6on voyage" in a most friendly
but tremulous tone.

"Youshallhearfrommebeforelong/'shouted Powellsud-
denly, just as my boat had cleared the mouth of the creek.

"This was yesterday," added Marlow, lolling in the
arm-chair lazily. "I haven't heard yet; but I expect
to hear any moment. . . . What on earth are you
grinning at in this sarcastic manner? I am not afraid of
going to church with a friend. Hang it all, for all my be-
lief in Chance I am not exactly a pagan. . . ."

THE END

HBOE COUNTRY LITE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N. Y.